elizabethlevett

The human body is around sixty percent water. 

Water covers more than seventy percent of the earth.

The Pacific Ocean accounts for most of that. 

That means that you are all around and inside of me.

Your constancy is my heartbeat.

Your water, the womb of my becoming.

Your tides, my coming and going, my rising and falling, my morning and my sleeping.

You are fullness and emptying, waxing and waning, ebbing and flowing.

Your storms are my cleansing, your luminous surface, my rapture.

Keep me always safely away from the edge of a cliff side.

I have no desire to fall or jump and bang my way down, glancing off each

massive stone before finally plunging 

into treacherous undertow.

But someday I might try to fly with the pelicans

dipping down a wingtip now and then, speeding over deep greens and kissing

white caps as I glide along.

It’s far too tempting, far too seductive to taste and touch the salty big time,

the vast big blue.

Let me stay on sandy ribs of shoreline barefoot,

pants rolled up in a haphazard slant,

shoes slung over one shoulder, 

laughing at the stinging cold of sudden froth on my skin.

Let me feel the water’s pull on me,

aging child so in love with the rhythm, the color, the changing light.

So much of you is me.