A history of the People

We go to ground first like more water,

but then the rain

washes the ocean out of us;

dried, there's sand.

Whistle of the wind comes calling,

lifts this young beach

body cut a sunbathed dance,

we ape, that's movement.

Finally, loose ballet falls stung

to a desert of what almost was;

the forest in time will grow

through a dead grip.