We All Get Wet

often the best response
is to give up
abandon all hope of
truly knowing how the
acorn becomes a tree
it just does, and
one day that barked
branched swaying nature
will topple, call it age
or disease, shifting roots
or unsteady ground, but
this too will just happen
and yet, we try so hard
to control all of life
when really, clinging
tightly is like pretending
a summer storm isn’t
made of rain, at some point
we all get wet

Little Oceans

Puddle, seconds before child 
stomps that glistening water, sky rain, 
cousin to Atlantic and Pacific.

Wet space where Trident gum lives between 
teeth and tongue, swishing this way and that, 
minty boat soon to be spit out.

Blue eyes, reflecting sunset waves, dancing 
light, endless saltwater pools, see, feel
everything.

Square windowed snowfall, winter flakes 
drift, living Monet, pine trees frozen 
in distance.

 

When The Glass Water Bottle Spoke

I see all the plastic bottles filled and shiny,
pasted labels over clear water within. I’ve

never been jealous of that crinkle sound,
sad little ache after the last drop is gone.

Always wondered what disposable meant,
dented, crushed, twisted, one on top of the

next, in bins, trashcans, on streets. Others
tossed off boats, or tide taken away from sand

into sea. Gulped by curious pelicans hungry
for more than digestive death.

Me, I like lips that touch my rim again and
again, tender sips when I’m brimming with cool

life-giving liquid. But I’m a romantic, I believe
in everlasting love, that you will want me forever.