#ndpoet

Where Wounds Rest

The office changes into an alcove tucked deep within the green hush of an old forest, safe and gentle as a Sunday morning dream.

She stands on the far side, quiet, back to me, grounded in the now, a guide to the maybe, knowing the art of drawing circles of safety where even old wounds can rest.

“Tell me what your body says,” she asks, turning, not meeting my gaze, just carrying the mystery of space between us.

Her familiar, sleepy, watches with one amber eye, as if they too, are part of the invitation to let the old ache settle to the roots below, to listen for what’s beneath.

The floor is not carpet, but earth, I can almost feel moss underfoot, soft as my breath, and as I sit, she waits at the periphery.

I listen for the first time to my own body’s weather, letting the spinning settle to a gentle thrum, trusting that the forest holds me even as I learn to hold myself.