Hanging on the cross

collecting the dross

on the doss

the dole,

of having a soul

what are we but clay pots collecting water?

no we are more and always have been

the views we have seen

the rhythms from the heart

the frequencies of our words

the skies, the birds

the moaning of love making

cell division shaking

through separation

like salt dissolving in water

and yet we are sons and daughters

trying to identify with our identities

yet eventually returning to the soul we came from

our bodies returning to dust

but our soul remains

in the Everglades.