Love weaves its colorful strands
as I stand under the boardwalk.
The old ones wonder that I survive.

Why not? Earth has plans for me
here where fire and water meet,
wood pushes up, and wind insists

On change. Hurricanes teach me
to walk outside the path of wonder
as rain pours through the planks.

The trees’ pulse is all that matters.
This is my body and my blood,
they say. I receive and give to you.

What of this is of my own making?
I am part of something greater
than myself— outside the deluge

— Inside the ever-filling vessel.
I am engulfed by flows, the
storm not of my own making.

Instead, it is making me.