Toddler With A Spoon
In the sand, I lay here.
Ripe like a tomato,
The sun beating heat down my back.
My pulses harden
Like a toddler with a spoon knocking on mama’s pans.
I notice a singular bulb of sweat
Dripping from the back of my neck,
Making its way through a wisp of hairs,
Yet, still holding its shape.
It traces it’s way across my shoulder,
Tap dancing down my collarbone.
The freckled path it moves along,
Is like a trail.
Though I am not sure that the wind has anything to do with directionality.
But, unlike that bead,
The wind does not chart my path.
It does not carry me softly to new heights.
It does not dissolve me,
Like the drop of sweat that once clung tight to this body.
Now, wiped away for new beads to form.
I lay here still.
With the sun.
With the mindfulness to see.
Till my knees get weak,
And my body bleeds sweet.