We really are balloons OR A snowfree memory

I keep having visions of myself: lying in a field under a noonday sun.
There is no snow, so it may be a memory.
No bugs or critters bother me, so it's more likely to be a dream.
I lay there casually hands folded behind my head, taking in what light I can before the day gives way to dusk.
I drink in more than my fill, as though I intend to store it for the rainy days to come.
I am struck by how much space I have within me.
To store a whole day's sun, in this fantastical place.
My chest is cleared of all rubble and rock, that which was leftover from the pair of size 8's that made themselves home.
My cheeks no longer clogged with insincerity, my forehead free of worry.
The quarry between both shoulder blades has become a vast ocean, so leaning back is akin to being carried on a wave.
Between each rib was once a cobweb of concern and self doubt, now clouds without shape or threat of storm.
The expanse in my hips, knees and toes is now rid rust and ash. Faerie lights and warm breezes make home there now.
Each sliver of fear, once painfully lodged in several parts of my throat, has been expertly removed!
The timing of which is most fortuitous, for the briar patch of regret that once snaked its way through my stomachs lining, has been brilliantly turned to rose petals.
These weightless wonders dance, not on a wind, but on a song.
I cannot hear it, but I know it's there.
Always been there.
I know that when I wake from this reprieve, these healing gifts will have rescinded.
Rust and webs and weeds and worry will all be where, always were.
One cannot will it away.
But there is a song in me.
So I best tend to my spaces, if I hope one day to hear it.