Wrapped in cotton,
Like a cloud—
Stretching out the
Pain that makes bones
Wither,
Air-popping relief and
Deep breaths speak for
Themselves.
There is nothing more
To be done,
But hum and wiggle
The toes that have been
Bent and sting.
Loose hours spent
Selfishly—deservingly so.
Lost leisure reclaimed
And the home
Feels like silk.
There is nothing more
To be done.
No need to wear glasses—
The days have been soft
Like the cotton that takes
The dirt off of tired skin.