A letter to myself | Namrata Narendra

Spread even, your flesh against the gnarled roots-
push against the carmine walls that caress you;
you will learn to outgrow them.
Drape around the trunk until one can’t tell
where flesh stops and pulp begins.
Breathe in carbon, breathe out oxygen

Remind yourself that you are a symbiont;
move branches to give, but do not forget to take
support to lift yourself up to the sun
and allow the sunlight to pervade,
penetrate the earth you’re growing out of
making visible the bodies that hold and nourish you

Tame the blood coursing through your veins;
move lightly, hear the whisper of the breeze
it will rustle your foliage, find stillness in its motion.
Breathe it in, breathe it out, breathe;
and do not be afraid to ride the wind, for when you do
wilderness will grow out of the feet you left behind