I had a dream that a tree grew up my spine. The wind blew it as a seed, and one day the bombarding rain bore it deep into the bone of my left big toe. The pressure grew as the stone expanded, and from its shell ascended a spiraling vine braiding through my fibula, wrapping up my femur. The veins of it's leaves mirrored my capillaries. The fresh green of the blades met the deep red of my organs and washed me in brown. Heavy brown. Strong brown and then it discovered my vertebrae. As the plant weaved into me I found I could not bend down my back for my uncertainties, neither could my shoulders fall the same. Everything thrust back and up, and a secure yet expanding sapling became my spinal column, its finger branches became eyelashes. Sprout tendrils pulled gently at my lids, then there I awoke. Breathing softly.