In the place where water has broken down land
to soft, soft earth,
then into the fine sand
where your feet dance down
to find the clams underground,
ancient middens are not far
across the world near rivers entering oceans,
the places where old ones stand on thin legs.
They are the people who come to me
and kiss me on the cheek
and say, Good morning, Sister, how are you?
and mean it each day.
That would be enough for me.
But let’s start at the beginning, my friend says as we swim:
The great serpent tickled the bellies of fat frogs and when they giggled
water came from their mouths.
This is how the lakes were created.
And so we are swimming in the laughter of those frogs
in the brown water of tea trees, perfect,
and when we lie at the warm shore
the tadpoles clean my flesh of all that should not be.
The next day I return and offer myself to them,
but they are busy turning into frogs.
I will have to wait for them to fill with water
and laugh. But swimming in the ancient laughter
and lying down in the warmth of the beginning
where water meets land
is enough. It’s all I need
this offering of joy.