once again,

where is my ocean?
homestead,
why are you so many footsteps
from this adolescence i'm cemented to?
if i had payed more attention in class,
i would have learned that
sand is the product of erosion,
and in my childishness i would ask why
i am not soft
and full of comfort like the ocean's frame.
why i cannot hold sun beam memories
like the beaches.
it is then i think my future,
or a kind old moon-mother would ask
what experience i think i have
to declare myself weathered.
when i show her my diaries
she will laugh and call
the holes in my socks fairytales.
so i will cry,
as all children do when proved wrong,
but she will hold me gently
and say,
"baby,
it is not that you are not brave enough
or big enough to hold this heat,
but you don't yet understand
that the ocean is colder than she seems,
and so long as you intend
to call salt air home,
please realize that you will have
bigger tsunamis to face,"
my eyes will have grown cherry orchards
without the greenery by now,
she pulls me tighter,
"but hush those aching lungs,
love,
and do not toss out
the tidepools that brought you here.
if you really believe in growing up,
God will erase sinking (and anchors)
from every language
you are going to learn,
little one."