A letter to myself

Spread even, your flesh against the gnarled roots
push against the carmine walls that caress you
you will learn to outgrow them
drape around the trunk until one can’t tell
where flesh stops and pulp begins
breathe in carbon, breathe out oxygen

remind yourself that you are a symbiont
move branches to give, but do not forget to take
take support to lift yourself up to the sun
and allow the sunlight to pervade,
penetrate the earth you’re growing out of
making visible the bodies that hold and nourish you

tame the blood coursing through your veins
move lightly, hear the whisper of the breeze
it will rustle your foliage, find stillness in its motion
breathe it in, breathe it out, breathe
and do not be afraid to ride the wind, for when you do
wilderness will grow out of the feet you left behind