I’m lying down looking at the colour of sky falling through trees,
dreaming the real, tasting what it feels like to love it.
Why did it take me so long to let go, simply exhale,
so the day could breathe itself in and open without me standing in the way?
How could I forget the grace of my own body  strong as this blue, tender as the white of the wild blossom, warm as midday light?
Let me practice a patience bold enough to hold every weather,
trusting the elements, the beauty of rain, all it shades of grey.
I want whatever’s real to be enough.
At least it’s a place to begin.
And to master the art of loving it;
feel it love me back under my skin.