Garden

Inhale dirt,
exhale flowers.
My lungs are gardens
with roots tangled,
reaching deep
to where the earth sees no light,
where hands find cold mud.
Rows of spring
line my throat,
my heart beats blooms from my chest.
Tulips, daisies, moonflower, and poppies
all collected into bouquets.
I am part of the healing wounded,
knowing softness better than I used to.

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