The Body Knows Not What the Earth Knows

The body knows not what the earth knows:

the way it becomes pliant with rain, soft 

as mud underfoot in spring,

or loose as a wind-dance 

in summer.

Neither melting snow or rushing water

is the way of the body.

I am none of these things.

My earth is made of tendons and sinew,

blood, bone

and the lung traps --

where the breath catches itself in braces. 

Each morning 

I wake before dawn, 

muscles of rock resisting

the goodness of sleep, of a bed,

of more dreams.

So with no other choice,

I rise

and I write,

glad for the upright chair made of wood.