Tongue of Earth

Here is a secret; I have talked to the world.
I’ve spoken to the clouds who drifted like the hitchhikers
you meet in dark, musty bars and they’ve told me the tales
of the mountaintops and the way they shifted, mimicking what
they observed below. They transformed from whales to see-saws
and when they formed into an old oak tree, I saw my life: stemming
and growing, blooming and learning, even during the winters when
my body is cold and my arms are empty.

I’ve whispered secrets to the oceans, and they swallowed them up
into their stomachs to ensure they were safe. The salt stung my
wounds, but I welcomed the pain with a sign of healing. I tried
to drown myself in that ocean, but it spit me up and
whispered back: “You need sadness for happiness to exist.
Coexistence is the only existence.”

I’ve exchanged memories with fireworks, and when I
was afraid of the gun shots in the sky, the colors cradled my
eyes and I felt the warmth under my skin. It took the
nights I spent crying and rocketed them in the air, exploding
into pinks and blues that I would later dream of, and my
happiness ricocheted off the sparks.

Everything in this world can speak, only if you are willing
to listen.