Ink

Ink



I am vast and old and you, the younger,

hold my life in your hands.  I fed you, washed your sins.

When you were a child, you built castles on my shoreline

and tiptoed through my surf, delighting in my waves,

delighting me with your laughter.



Then deeper you explored me, with stolen freedom.

Your growing years turned fear to curiosity. 

You brought your friends to meet me, sang around campfires,

walked my shores barefoot, hand in hand.

You caught crabs on my sandbars to impress your date.



You rested on my beach, made love beneath the stars,

seeking heaven like an infant turtle seeking the moon.

I watched as you grew to adulthood, had children of your own,

I embraced your children, like I held you, your parents,

and the countless millions who came before.



In my trust of man, I lay bare my body

on the carpet of sand, as you mined ink from my floor,

your amorous tribute in my honor

for providing you sustenance, purpose, pride.

You wrote upon my body, but not with tendrils of Mindi,

in delicate patterns on tanned skin, preparing for a feast. 



Instead, you gripped your chunky black marker,

Like an impatient toddler, banging it until its casement

cracked and spilled its ink

into crevasses no one has dared to travel,

and onto skin white and delicate as sugar.



If I were human, you could have been my child,

my careless little one, running with scissors,

spilling red popsicle on my white couch,

jumping carelessly from trees at impossible heights.

But still, how could I not love you? 



You, a hungry child begging for food

while your father begs for a job

and your mother prays the turtles will find my shores. 

How can I not answer all your prayers, how could I not provide?



And you, my thrill seeking teen,

my immortal son careening down a dark road

on a motorbike, in the rain, without a helmet

or diving off rocks into shallow water. 

How could I not worry about you? 



You, my children, who try as hard to do yourself in

as you try to win my love.  You cannot win what you already have.

And is it not a parent’s worst fear to outlive their children?

I see you are trying to end my nightmare, put me in the grave. 



But don’t forget, it is I who have buried far more than you will ever know. 

Yet here I am.  And when it is your time to go, it will be you I’ll mourn

For here I will be.  Destined to watch my children fall, 

and learn to save themselves, again.  And again.  And again.





Note: Still working on this one.  Suggestions welcome.