November turns the fields to cold mud

corvids usually pick through the wet grass

their eyes sharp enough to cut

their cries so raucous as to wake the dead

today no unkindnesses nor murders are to be found in the yard

and the gray of clouds has seeped into our dreams

sending us to do desperate things for color

paint a picture of our wildest hopes

dance down the street to strut and wail and beat

amidst the chaos we needs gather more than ever

find our people, set a table, join hands together

give thanks to farmers, now let us eat

if the body remembers, then mine holds close

stories of how to die and return

to return and die again and again

such were my first three months and beyond

thus it has remained

currently I have fever cough pain

three months now off and on again and again

no comforting touch nor sheltering box

only finally the knowledge that I am not unique

that everyone is always in a transitional state

I wrap this understanding around me

a calming weight to ease my intemperate mind

and rest

first layer, feeling

physical here-and-nowness

constriction of breath

in and out movement

each a different nuance of pain

second layer, noting

it is like this and this and this

labels drop away

dissolving into flow

inhalation and exhalation

third layer, resting

awareness sees itself

elsewhere a spider takes a step

and the world trembles