Becoming

I can feel myself becoming.

I can feel the hard bone and life marrow conducting neon techno-colored
urges,
pulsing through the womb, seed and dirt to this body.

A body that changes without realizing,
a body that has transformed itself, both with and without my consent
into a tree bearing naked branches.

Long limbs of potential,

My branches bear hopes of
blossoms
budding.
They stretch for freedom but are being taken.

Wrapped around and bound together,
my branches hold words in place
negative white space
to contain size twelve font, double spaced times new roman numeral
funds of knowledge.

My gnarly naked tree body
feels hollowed. It wants to be the home
for flowers,
for animals pregnant with cooing fuzz and flesh,
for sleep in a deep moss whispering ancient wisdom
of a time in coral reefs washing up existence onto its shores.

My roots are thirsty.
They want to become entangled with yours
under the soil, swelling with love
to grow rings in new ages.
And with each ring,
blossom, leaf and winter,
a new promise
to stretch out, greet the yellow day,
and breathe life back
into everything.

My branches are growing buds


I can feel myself becoming
what I have always been
giving,
bridging air to earth,
life to death,
myself to this body;
I can feel the urges of being of everything
and belonging to everyone.
I feel myself becoming
simply me.