It is not folly to be sick
bodies breaking down
stripping flesh from mind
separating the viruses and germs
from taking over
like a plague
devouring health
like a sick game
of wit.
But wit came and went
and determination stayed
like a whip breaking
receding
dissolving
into the earth
all pain vanished
the moment love came into the picture bringing a sense of sensitivity, sensibility, belonging, grace, peacefulness, and harmony. The balance of nature is to be mature not unlike like manure becoming compost for flowers.
Something like sickness
or suckness or swiftness
can only be surface material
marching forward
getting stronger every day
weakened by germs and viruses
weakened by wanting
weakened by longing
to become something greater and grander than ever imagined.
To be sick
is to surrender.
Is to lie in the wet dirt
called mud
and be covered by rain and leaves
becoming mulch for the trees.
Wet. Withered. Weak and surviving.
And once the sickness passes,
bodies grow sturdy
become thick roots
winding deeper into earth’s crust
the inner and outer layers
changing dust
into mud
into mulch
into compost
into sprouts
into plants
into gardens
into parks
there unto infinity
back into dust
and the beautiful cycle
starts
all over again.
and the seasons come and go
and the sickness comes and goes
and the flowers and fruits and vegetables grow and grow
and grow and grow and grow
into someone to be proud of.