Standing forever at 5’2”, I ask the sea,
“What is it like to still be growing taller,
Even after millennia?”
It sighs,
Waves a dismissive hand at my youth and height.
“I do not wish to be anything I am not.
Look at a tree,
Even in its midwinter bareness,
And tell me it is not perfectly made.
I do not wish to be unasked and still filled so that I millimeter
Taller
Every
Day.
Am I, too, not already perfectly made?”
It then bows low,
Kisses my toes in its eternal and unwilling servitude,
Wishing me goodbye,
And still unable to stop me,
If I wanted to,
From wading in,
Taking up its space with my little own,
And forcing it taller still.
