this form
is not a prison,
it is a womb,
the soft, porous earth,
where seeds lie
in waiting,
where weeds
and lilies
and banyans
and sunflowers
grow and wilt,
where insects crawl
to craft their home,
and to mate
and devour each other,
sometimes
in one breath,
where the lone hippo
soaks in a water
he loves to feel
is his own
for this one moment,
where the sparrow flits
from tree to house
to ground,
only to build its nest
somewhere
within these four walls
I call home,
and where I
find and lose myself
everyday,
to shed skins
until there
is no more skin
left to shed,
where there is
a place for everything,
and everything
is in its place,
in what we call
our home.
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