I run to the water, not for
the fun, but from the
anger of my burning feet
and I meet the cold ocean
with a slight sigh of relief and
I breathe for just a brief
moment, but the thick
salty smell of rotting
seaweed invades my lungs.
I trudge through the
hell-maze of mud, rocks, and shells,
from oozing to slipping to paining
and wonder why I came to this cold ocean.
The sun seems a little too hot
yet, the breeze a little too cold
and as I scrunch my face
to darken the bright light of the sky,
I see him.
A little boy.
A little too fat, a little too pale,
a little too bundled up for such a scorching day,
and a little too timid as he
slowly, tentatively tiptoes towards the mud.
"No," he says, "I won't go!"
And I reluctantly show him a smile
so he knows it's OK.
"You bet it's fun to get
your feet dirty and wet,"
I say through the sweat of my own regret,
"don't be upset, just let the
slime slip-slide beneath your soles,
let the mischievous fingers of the wind
tie impossible knots in your hair.
Sprint without a hint of rhyme, reason, or direction;
do it because you can.
Let the resounding sound of your feet
high-fiving the sand restart your heart
and mold your soul into a part of this
overwhelmingly astounding wide open space."
And I turn to face
my hypocritical self and
sincerely debase and erase every
trace of my misplaced negativity
as I embrace this inconceivably incredible place.
What more could I want
but more of this
crisp air frisking every inch of my form.
I feel dizzy with Disney
because as Jasmine
my eyes are open to this
whole new world taking me wonder by wonder
and as Pocahontas
I want to explore the forest's hidden pine trails,
smell, touch, taste the sun-sweet treats of this Earth,
roll in all the riches all around me,
never pausing to ponder how many
pennies they are worth.
You can't possibly put a price
on this perfect slice of heaven.
I gotta hand it to marvelous Mother Nature's
intricate architectural plan of this land,
woven so grand from
tree to cold sea, to mountain to sky.
It's finally clear to me
that the reason for our
reoccurring rain is Her pride
pouring out in salty tears for this
painfully beautiful geographical masterpiece
Forgive me, Mother, for
I have sinned.
How dare I protest and divest
the very soil with which you've
fabricated this creation.
I vow to wrest it,
wear it with pride,
let it seep in through my skin,
let it broil within my blood,
let it infest my chest
and etch a majestically proud crest into my heart.
Oh City, My City,
into you I have been pressed,
and as your guest I shall hereafter
wear my Sunday best
and when the behest of death
doth rap down my door,
I will journey west to
resign, recede, regress,
and it is in your breast that
I request to silently lay
this head to rest.
