things that are
like nothing else is,
familiar as the smell of your own scent
taste of your own skin
sight of your own body
familiar as the force of spring water,
the sound of chickadees
in a stand of mute spruce
familiar as the ripple in your throat
waiting for your voice to return
from the sealed-off jars of memory
released now to feast on the preserves
after you’ve slept so long
tasted now, at the celebratory breakfast of your awakening.