Poetry: Worth
A poem
I lie along the windowsill
across the ocean,
as if we were equals,
made of the same stuff,
as if we were looking
at the same ceiling,
as if I could scoop
all its salt
into my small hands,
as if I could caress
its sorrows.
Did you know
that the oceans drink
the fever
of the whole planet,
shriveled to a raisin
otherwise?
I look
at my hands,
salt-sketched
destiny;
the nowheres,
the friendships,
the almosts.
There is nothing except
a soft wind here,
warm and smiling.
A hard life is not less worth
than an easier one.
I love the contemplative tone of this poem Naz
Some days We are broad enough and spacious enough to allow our inner ocean to absorb life’s fevers. I feel that sometimes too.
This poem is delicious ( like salty not too hot potato chips) how the story of life is backgrounded in the poem and your body/hands and the vast body of ocean are foregrounded together. It’s as if your body is remembering her earth mother, her worth and the girth of her capacity for life.
Such hopeful reverence for all of our lives.
Soothing hands are your poetry hands Naz, thank you 🙏🏼
A lovely refreshing piece!