Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity The more delicate algae and the sea anemone. It tosses up our losses, the torn seine, The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices, Many gods and many voices. The salt is on the briar rose, The fog is in the fir trees.
sometimes i catch myself talking about the weather much too much, and pretending to know about things i don't, and it reminds me of how as a child i thought grown-ups were so annoying for talking about the weather much too much and pretending to know about things they don't. then i grow sad that i am already 25 and am supposed to be a grown-up.
but then i remember that i still listen to my music much too loudly, and that i eat ice cream almost exclusively in bed, that i still dance like a maniac alone in my room at least 4 times a week, that sometimes i eat strawberry licorice for breakfast, and that my wallet is completely unorganized. things that make my mum sigh in grief, they make me sigh in relief.
growing up is inevitable they say. but i'll choose to celebrate the minnow. sometimes she's the smarter one in me anyway.