The Body Poem Project: A poem for how the body sounds and feels as it sits here in the morning: feeling warm

Today I give myself permission for poetry: 365 to 182.5. 

My body, the condition of my body, becomes a poem. 

My feet placed firmly on the floor. 

The pads of my feet sore and calloused rubbed with pumice stones and sea salt scrub. 

 Fall comes and I turn to my spring body for inspiration. 

My body changes with the seasons, but so much remains unchanged for now. 

Body, we are in conversation at last: 

 “Good morning.” 

 “How are you feeling?” 

I am exploring breath, exploring trembling: what it feels like and why it happens. 

I can hear my heart beating, shaking in this chest. 

Stomach, too: I hear her. Listening. A little squish and whine.  

A little squish and whine: Tish dog wiggles. 

She likes that she can control things with her body. With her little body: fifteen pounds. 

She does one thing and another happens, something she likes, good. 

It is a new experience, a wonder. 

She appeared in fall, came out of spring, bringing her body to the poem and the poetry which suddenly appears and our fates are, in an instant, changed, and our bodies, too. 

Hips protruding, hips painful, hips wiggling with delight. 

The mind wonders: Will sickness come in fall: a cold, a flu, the coronavirus, we all (maybe not enough though) fear in this pandemic? 

But the body holds its temperature: 97-99 or 101-102.5. 

And, for now, these bodies make this poem.