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.