Monday, July 28, 2014


If you’re born with the taste of salt on your
Tongue, in sight of a treetop mast; you tend
To take the wide-angle view, catch the stars,
Explore the seas; and search out the ribbon
That fastens the firmament to earth.

Unending whorls of space, deep reaches
Of ocean clutch at me like the rumble
Of earthquakes. You who are ground
And sky and sea, remember me. I tremble
Like a blown leaf on damp trampled sand.

I am not the wave who washes all things
Clean nor the shore who reaches for the lost.
I am the seashell with its ear wide open, the
Blade of grass who bends to listen for the
Possibilities in every breath.

No comments:

Post a Comment