Trust

I trust what this body knows –
   breathing in, breathing out,
   the way home.

I trust the ground, which I can stand upon –
  the earth that rises to meet my feet
  and gives gently beneath my weight.

And I trust that ground which I cannot stand upon –
   the falling away that everything returns to.

I trust what this body knows –
   the pulsing and quivering, the tight, the hard, 
   the smooth, rough and flowing.

I trust the great oak and the white pine, who do not question
   where the next branch will grow;
   who are tall, solid, gnarled and strong; 
   who bend in the wind.

I trust the sun, that shines and warms
   the taut green skin and deep blue water of this earth;
   that sun toward which we all instinctively turn;
   which touches our billion faces alike, 
   asking only the song of our sincere living in return.

I trust what this body knows –
   breathing in, breathing out,
   the way home.

I trust what this body knows
   that the magnolias in spring take time to bloom,
   that the autumn leaves do not struggle to reach the ground,
   that we too are beautiful, brief, free.