slowly, & with the caution
of a tongue extending itself
into scalding tea,
i let myself smile.
breathe in air that i have
neglected to breathe.
there is something in the sunlight
or something in the water -
words are clear and cold
like your body piercing through
the water when we go swimming
some summer afternoon.
slowly, & without notice,
sense returns.
taste and sight come running in
from their absence;
they are children, late and
catching the end of the school bell's
morning heralding.
touch slides in as if it hasn't been gone.
i realize in its return
how much it was missed.
the sun stretches out from
behind a cloud in the sky;
i stretch my arms above my head,
waking up.
slowly,
i am awake.
(april 2007)
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