Not a slice of cake, the task at hand. When the world is so loud, I tend to be quiet. I let go of things or make deals to relinquish suffering. It’s quite nice here and white birds occasionally accompany me.

I marched once tall in inland soil, then felt the ocean’s call, Now I keep time with creaking ropes and hear the bosun’s bawl. No mast nor sail do I command, yet still I ride the brine, Passed from storm to storm like verse between the beats of time. I wash ashore to end the song where foamy choruses stood. What am I, sung by wind and wave, the sailor’s silent wood?

I drift in silence, pale and grand, a frozen form where oceans stand. Above the waves I gently gleam, below I’m larger than I seem.

I fall from cans in silver streams, To wake up roots and feed their dreams. In gardens, fields, and pots I sing, Life awakens when I bring. Too little, plants begin to fade, Too much, and muddy mess is made. What am I, that nourishing thing, But make sure you add your ing.