there is weather in her bones

the clouds on her shoulders finally
gave and the rain fell from the crowned
canopy, slipping and gliding past her heart,
down each vertebrae, settling onto 
the hard petals of her pelvis, softening
the gray to green. the storms help find
the weight of pain not held in the brain
though in the sacrum, that bone of being.
so much of her is only fixed by the wind 
sent from the world to cradle locked joints
to loosen, letting muscle hang like vines
searching for sun in her blood, photosynthesis
only possible in this sincerity of stretch 
the clouds will come again and knows
she is god of her own earth.