She looks up and tries not qualify her experience with a metaphor. The view is poetic enough: blue sky, sparse clouds. Sun glowing through treetops. Soft breeze suggesting rain in the upcoming moments, hours, days. She doesn't have her finger on the pulse of this place just yet. Not yet. Her fingers are still meandering up and down, touching a wrist, the space behind an earlobe.
Not yet, but soon.
She looks down and sees earth, soil. Green grass that reaches toward the soles of her feet, that provides cover and comfort for the billions of organisms that live intertwined in its clutches.
Things are broken and plans have changed.
Things are shifting and hearts will heal.
There is no running from this truth: it courses through her veins, quietly and completely rearranging the universe, rewriting history, reimagining fate.
It aches. It vibrates and bounces and beams. This, this change of plan, this respite from what is expected, it burns as it creates space, as it stretches, as it reconfigures.
She looks in.
She finds vessels contracting, synapses firing, her neurons ablaze with terror, with light.
She looks in and feels the endless expanse of pores, of follicles, of openings and closings, her blood pumping, her heart beating, pushing outward, growing ever greater.
She looks forward.
The view is poetic enough.