cicada thoughts in england- on transition

Gnats crowd my eyes and dandelion seeds float into my mouth. Something about new skin for new wine. New clean spaces. Paint itching to bleed out of my fingers onto some virgin canvas.

I’m not bitter anymore. I want to be good, to be better, to be humble and compassionate and kind.

I’m a little scared for the first time, being honest. Days and Months trip over themselves to boot me off the doorstep. What if I haven’t grown up enough?

Does the cicada feel any discomfort as it crawls out of its dry skin?

skin cells turn over, new eyes, new hands, new heart. neurons fire tentatively now confidently. it feels like a yawn. a stretch as tension pulls then releases on the muscles in you. hello dear, good morning, you’ve been sleeping a long time. can i get you some coffee. listen to the birds. fresh habits, rituals, rhythms pounding like horses round a race track. you sound healed my uncle says. i sit at the kitchen table, my past spilling out of my mouth and i realize it didn’t taste stale this time and somehow i feel grown, not like the shaky teenager trying to hold it together.