I'll wait here.
My soles could grow roots; nosing and nudging their way through the clay, clinging, not desperately, but determinedly, to the bedrock of this land. And I would be held, anchored, a sentinel amongst the sentinels.
Or maybe I could lay down, lay still, and let the spongey expanse of my lungs become moss. My heart would become the most exquisitely formed heart-shaped rock; a treasure hidden in the forest. My hair, lichen. My skin, just another expanse of forest floor; unremarkable and yet entirely holy. My bones a framework for all that needs a safe place to land, a safe place to begin.
Or maybe something less permanent.
Like a night on a bed of moss under a blanket of stars.
Or a hushed moment, no longer than the cycle of a breath in and then out again.
Or just a blink of the eye; but a slow blink, because the way the clouds have become tangled in my eyelashes makes my lids heavy.
I would wait there.