I gather hundreds of leaves from time spent writing,
harvesting words on star-spun nights and early rise,
and find what served me best was not love-struck hunger,
that blind-sick demon, blood-sucking my own heart dry,
but insight of sea and land, its mythology and nature
of human perception, the curvature of how my body
is the body of soil, clay-built from star dust and my first taste
of sea salt, ambient tides leading back to the movement of place,
bone-shifting, root-grounding, migrating, returning home
to birth sands, finding heart-love in my own body of soil, all along.