The dirt under her nails isn’t chic.
She comes by her brick-red lips the hard way,
which is fine if you don’t mind clay on your tongue.
That hardpan doesn’t even know she’s there,
scratching with her pencil, trying to form words.
The wind and water made it look so easy,
etching a coastline one grain at a time.
How did we learn to make bricks with mud?
How did we learn to make mud when the rain didn’t come?
The straw’s not an afterthought – the swallows know.
Their lives depend upon the right mix of rain, mud and straw.
Yes but then we are not birds.
Our instincts take us into layers they never dreamed.
So come on with your soiled nails and clay lips my dear.
We’ll be the envy of windblown waves.