Healing is like standing in
muddy waters, soaked to the brim
but dry in the heart
It is a strainer that only pours soil.
Healing is Indian summers,
and England winters
that gives you the sweat of the sun,
but not its warmth.
When you comb healing,
you make more locks than before;
Before you finally begin —
to untangle from the roots.
Standing coated in the clay of your grief,
with a parched heart, sweaty palms, and cold feet
You open your thick, messy, awkward curls
And you heal.