Aware and not aware of storm, sun
as well as lightning, wind, staying in
the backyard, defying Mother’s cries

To come inside, sensing my balance,
sturdy, as the crepe myrtle’s trunk.
Bunnies scurry across the meadow

Behind our fence. Made of dust,
of water I am. Humans are of that:
Born to live, to dance in the form

Of the spiral, on the edge of all
my grandparents’ DNA, utterly
dependent on the temperature

Outside. Rain didn’t pool
excessively, little turtle was
protected from wind by his

Shell. I returned to my little
grey house leaving shorts,
tee shirt in a substantial

Puddle. We are a web.
And every caterpillar
depends on cycles of

Climate and weather.
Our strength varies.
Sentient beings want

To live, live, live until
we die in mystery
at Gaia’s bequest.