Perhaps you just need to sit in the sun and drink cold peppermint tea. It worked for me.

Sometimes the sun slips behind a cloud,
the blazing heat softens—
the light dims.

When exactly did we invent
outside and inside?
Before buildings, wasn’t everything
just outdoors?
Surely the door
came before we split the world
into indoor and outdoor.
Instead of "Where are you?"
ask me, which side of the door
I am on. I'm outside. I'm outdoors.

Where am I,
if not a handful of words—
made by men
long before me,
words given to me
to name these spaces?

Words made up—
maybe I can make words, too.

Maybe that cloud
is a ceiling—maybe I’m sheltered.
Maybe this herb is medicine—
maybe this isn’t illness,
but a kind of life—
like the sun
slipping behind a cloud.
Darkness can be nice.

Maybe I am spiraling, circling,
ovaling—through shapes
unnamed yet—
just ways to move.

Maybe life—the shadow—
was reprieve after all.
Maybe what we’ve called bad,
what we’ve called broken,
is simply life
doing what life does.