Here’s another poem
about the wind-swept sea –
its froth and spray, churn and tumble,
bitter dash upon the shore.
Another poem diving only
deep as I can hold my breath,
gather my fears, buck my buoyancy –
everything below that left unfathomed.
One day, per my Lord, I’ll become Piscean,
crafted and structured to bear the weight
and pressure of the depths.
When that happens, ages hence,
I’ll be known for my wide-eyed
oceanic silence, my lack of output –
no fingers to hold a pen or type a letter.
No fleshy mechanism to form a word.
O child of God, when you come to know,
surely you’ll have nothing to say.
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