I give up, cradled.
Today I felt as if I were to dry up the sea and count its salt.
I was charged to spin redwoods on their heals, to walk them across terraces of deer brush.
I asked myself if I could place each grain of sand on one palm and pour them onto the other.
I gave up. I’m cradled now:
My sharp, ocean crags are smooth beneath my step
I do not hold that sand;
instead, she holds me as I walk across her, and we laugh in stride.
I’m folded, knead by knead, into warmth.
I will sleep for a while now.
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