I wish to be sand;
So I might soak up what is brought to me
And become malleable.
That small hands could shape me,
Build fleeting dreams and weep
As the perpetual tides ripple,
Pulling me with them into strong currents.
Or to make rich and fertile loam,
Where steadfast roots take hold,
Spread, and sprout eternal forests.
I wish to be water,
To cool parched tongues
And soothe with calming touch
The burning minds and souls
Of the wayward and weary.
Let them follow me to green places
Among groves that blossom and give shelter;
Allow them take my nourishment,
Build upon my shores and live forever:
Peaceful through generations in quiet, smiling joy.
I wish to be air—
Free and constant and neverending—
The unconscious need,
Drawn into aching lungs and given back
To the gasping Earth, to bleeding hearts
Intent on love and suffering.
Would that I could comfort
With deep breaths.
But I am not air,
Neither am I water nor sand.
I am a pebble,
Eroded away by relentless millennia
From mountain to boulder,
To big rock and small.
And there are eons still ahead.