What arms are these
that I have found
set gently against the
ground?
They fit just fine
and within them
is a sense of something
new.
An eastern wind
blows in
as I pluck an apple
from the tree
that I grew beside.
These arms change
in an intimate set
of seasons.
These arms
that wish to be wings
and thus move
to become them.
Flower petals fall
all around me.
I do not flinch
at death
nor do I
make myself big
in the face of its
bear.
I cup my new hands
at the end of these new arms
and pray for rain
that pools like fire.
I pray to gods
that look at me
evenly
from the other side
of a healing Earth.
every year on my birthday i write a birthday poem. “the anatomy of a ___ year old man.” thank you for reading.
Image: Joe Pilié
maiurro 