May Thirteenth

i am the smallest being
(closest to the ground when I need
to be) but standing here,
my shoes removed.

the flight of myself is how I know,
my separation of contact from
ground–though also uncertain–
is no match for the feeling of Icarus
basking in a sun too indifferent
to sustain his wings.

i am not asked or pressed
but i open the door to an ocean.

what was bold is pleasant and dry
but i am a fish. i may suffocate
for a moment but floods wash out the
sand and dust.

i breathe in the moisture of a cloud.
i rise with it.

May the Eighth (the view from where I sit)