It takes thousands of years
of rainfall to produce an ocean.
Which makes me think of all
the lifetimes found in a wave
which makes me feel closer
to my own reckoning.
I imagine the places
my consciousness could end up:
perhaps in a grove of orange trees
maybe even as a branch of a willow
but how often do we end
where we began.
There was once a time
when we believed oceans
adorned the face of Venus,
but science
as with all our greatest stories,
has corrupted this too.
How I could reawake there
surrounded by ancient rains,
how I could walk
against the waves in one direction
and always end up somewhere else.
