Our greatest works
live in the stories we share.
We are an evolving work;
living novels, art of flesh.
We carry volumes of past to present,
of joy & grief
—a colossal library in our ribcage.
Maybe that’s where all that weight comes from.
In a single crow feather,
maybe god actually had it right this whole time.
When your bosom was molded,
it was made a sonnet,
a love poem from mother & earth.
It’s time to sing our stories
like birds excited for the first buds of spring.
We’ve all been waiting for you.