Air
How old are you today?
Do you record the voices of every bird?
Every scream and every laugh?
Fire
Where do you want to go?
Do you prefer candles or campfires?
Are you remorseful during lightning strikes?
Water
If you make up 75% of home, why not go all the way?
Do you prefer kitchen faucets or wishing wells?
Do you feel ticklish when the waves roll over you?
Earth
Do you feel like you must clean yourself?
How many bones have you swallowed and did you choke?
Which ones were sharpest?
Above
How do you not fall down?
Where do you begin and where do you end?
What do I look like to you?
Below
Do you choke on the bones then spit them out?
What do I look like to you?
Within
Why can't I see you today; can't you come out?
Where did this body come from?
That is a question you should never ask
because I never tire
of the whooshing wings and laughing gulls.
They are forever and keep the memory etched in the sky.
For every fire, I see warmth and life,
for even the sky must strike once.
I go everywhere; inside bellies and eyes and chimneys.
There is not enough space for me,
you will understand that even destruction needs a room to stay.
Dirt covers me, I am dirt, holding so much hurt.
Yes, the bones choke me - you shouldn't have to ask
which ones.
I see you from above, carrying a light on your head
and from below, miles and miles to go.
You will never see me, but you can teach me
to appear from within
where blindness is only a feeling.
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