H2O

Trapped, I flow between snow-capped peaks and ocean waves;

crashing my head against 10,000 foot-tall-ridges, and 5-foot sand bars as I undulate.

I try to sail over the mountains, catch a gust of wind east

back to the arms of that pinky finger lake, where I first burst from the ice.

I fled from its cliffs, little water-droplet afraid to fall that’s me.

I hopped a cloud across the mighty Mississippi,

Now I’m on the left coast, water’s everywhere,

rising fast with the fog I’m caught without solitude.

The only moment to myself I keep is as dew,

until the sun rips me from my blade of grass into another day.

Mist evaporates, another fruitless venture into the hills,

I turn to the waves wishing a current will whisk me away.

But she’s not on a faraway shore. Not anymore.

The friend who needs no words to know

my fear of fishbowls; my love of a quiet evening

condensing on a tulip tree leaf, and letting fireflies illuminate our surface.

She’s by the pinky finger lake, I left so long ago,

for the romantic beauty of a voyage, or to escape the fall.

Yet nature’s mousetrap won’t release any who’ve made the fabled western journey.

So here I sing trapped between the mountains and the sea.