How many re-births can one have in one’s lifetime?
And does it depend entirely upon how many times one allows oneself to die
Having lived that phase as fully
And completely as possible?
Squeezing from it the last dregs of sap;
And of life.

Collapse.
The world closes in.
Seeming small again. And dark. And bleak.
I lie here.
And exhale.
And marvel at what has come and what has gone.

Knowing.
With the certainty of the seasons
That this descent is necessary.
New life;
Fed from the decay of the old.
Traumas as plant-food.

Inhale.
And rest in the pause. In the pain. In the loss.
And then gently stretch; The edges of the underbelly.
Testing, peeking, Seeking;
The wonder and awe
Of what’s yet to come.

Expansion is painful;
Like growing pains.

A Poem by Nicola Clare