Blooming

My ribs they shelter
a growing season.

My lungs they cultivate
a secret orchard.

Each breath scatters
a few more stars
through the fertile black soil
of the self.

My transformation proceeds
with exquisite courtesy.

A whisper.
A shimmer.
A slow transfer
of title deeds.

One day
the final document will arrive.

And I will sign.

The signature will flower
across the page.

Somewhere beneath it
another hand will continue
writing.