Three sisters read the inscriptions of my body

underneath a sprawling elm

            The first listened for the morning birds

that inhabit my ruling planet

and all of the other things that she had spun

                                          in and out of my existence.

            The next stretched out my palm, 

and saw the river along my life line,

        that flowed beyond my hand, and formed

                                       a pathway to the rolling ocean.

            The last pressed her ear against my chest,

and measured my breaths like a sundial,

She heard my childhood clambering up, up, up,

                                        and out of my throat,

                                               to join the February winds.

The sisters tell me it is time to let go

of the possessions that my body can no longer house.

They say,         "It's later than you think."