When I open I imagine my rib cage has hinges, unlocked at the sternum, creaking open like my old dollhouse, cobwebs hiding small compartments, a curios cabinet of time.
DNA of the forest, flesh of fern and bark of birch trees. Faeries I played with as a girl, fluttering in wings of hawks, in sounds of birds awaken every morning at 4 am to greet the world before the sun.
Soft pine needles under hardened bare feet. Tongue of fire, eyes of owl, pupils full of clouds. A canopy of buds and leaves, filtered sun and shadow protecting me. This is where I breathe, hands in the dirt, toes dipped in silver streams embraced by sand.
Acorn, pine cone, tiny shells and feathers, treasures made of moss and bone. Roots that press my airy body back to earth, to ground, to rich soil and rock, to former glacial ocean turned deciduous, coniferous, old growth, layered and sedimentary. A reflective self sufficient history.