You are whole.
Not less than, not half,
always peering around the corner
for the other half,
asking each uncaring stranger:
Are you my mother?
You are whole.
Not needy or desperate,
a beggar with arms outstretched
for a scrap of love:
Please, sir, may I have some more?
You are whole.
Not a hole
gaping, aching
like an open thirsty mouth
in the desert.
You are whole.
You are the gushing flowing spring.
You are the budding blooming sprouts.
You are all.
You are here, now, whole.
Go forth and roar out your wholeness.
Image by ymyphoto from Pixabay
