Our bodies broken and bent from birthing, left to shrivel and stagger around air conditioned malls. Limping forward continuing to care.

Sometimes smiling, joyful at the moment butt hits chair, the smell of coffee and cake – the curse and cure all. Extras kilos blur designer’s lines and carry softly bled edges of white cotton on the wind of the manufactured airways.

A corn, ingrown toenail, twisted pelvis, deglazed knee or poor night’s sleep slowing down our need to run for cover or to hope. Not lost or forlorn but caught up in it – within the epicentre – the eye of the storm of care.

Shop little lady, gather and garnish, breed and love. Hobble onwards – nesting, nesting.