The Great Healer waits, larger than a mountain, just over the green hill through the road under the root gate, along the stream and among the pillars of the old giants. His tools are spread out on the slabs of dark stone, the way opener falls away, I am alone. My body is spread out on the cold weathered table formed from the back of the crumbling stone man, seen and felt at once as both whole and spread open like a field of stars.
Some things are the way they are. The past self, alone on a hill on a fall day in the perfect warm wind, a template for restoration work. All that missing time, it was my own self restoring and folding under the enormous copper scythe, stuffed full of herbs and roots, a scarecrow spread out through time and space.
Time to climb down, wander through the hills toward a place I hope still exists, and stitch myself to the waking world again. Climbing up, sewing my wandering soul to the eyes of the breathing body; waking up full of one more wide ancient space and one step closer to healing.