I keep hoping that, one day,
I'll spring palladial from the bole of a tree.
Fully formed, sexless,
Conceived without desire or intent.
My body will be virginal and clean,
My mind fresh, my soul at ease.
The tree, behind me, will stand crooked,
Bole seeping until time and air dry sap.
I will be a flat expanse of green, made up of new cells.
Everything will work together, a smoothly running machine.
I keep hoping to, one day,
Function with unity, unflagging.
Organized and purposeful,
Intent only on fulfillment.
My vision will be clear and unclouded,
My will affirming, strong, and sure.
And when I fall, I will remain whole,
Confident that I lived well and unapologetic.
