Mercy Weiss

The sun is my mom.

I fall a far way but land quickly-

Asleep from day, I swim in the salt.

Under the moon, I am warm

Tethered to the earth- where I drift

While looking up to see, stings.

The stars are my siblings.

I know they are there but

I cannot tell one from the other.

Under the moon, I am home.

Dissolving just to reappear- I float

With moons moving within me,

I do not repeat the cycle.

The warmth is there

And I admire from afar,

Watching the light come full focus

I do not compete or let it dim mine,

While removing the dried layers

Of salty waters, sweat, and tears.

Kissing the shore with each wave

As sand and foam forgive me.

Butterflies will visit from time to time

In the fray where we live,

To meet us with unending choices-

Unburdened by human error.

Where we control to connect

the threads lost in translation.

When rain comes, they will hide

Some fortunate to find a stone home.

Some have access only to a single leaf,

Clinging to this electrical forest

More likely to catch a lightning strike.

If lucky, only slightly wounded- still

Catching glimmers between

The underneath and what awaits us above.

Tied and true, addicted to the sugar water,

When the rigger no longer has a hold on you

Forget me not and visit me again.

A reflex reaction resolves quick,

While emotion lingers-

that in between

Moment, where the reflex is

No longer necessary but

Still happening out of fear.

Moving closer to the heartbeat.

The product of curiosity now

longing for itself-

Human: the most trapped animal.

Leftover lilac wine

Carrying our steps in the dance.

This round of musical chairs-

we play it over since

Self reflection is self knowledge.

How many yesterdays have passed?

May as well refill the cup when

magic is alive and this is, share- since

Self expression is self preservation.

We take our seats, set our stages, wondering

Will there be yesterdays to remember?

Everything is and must go on, it is so

Everything is and so nothing - Matters,

Drink, dribbling down the neck

Deep in the undertow- relax, accept.

One in 8 billion- spread, I am potential to

Mother of thousands.

One in 8 million- where I am planted

On the devils backbone, I am a

Hoarder of cuttings, not to be placed in soil.

Sentient being plagued with expectation,

While questioning when the earth will eat me.