I want to be something ordinary…

Like dirt

To watch the storms move in

Gray skies and wind

The worm beneath my fingertips

The butterfly; wing clipped by the weed whacker.

I may never think that I am enough…

Or realize that I don’t have to be.

I may never say the right thing or know the proper way to act..

And it simply doesn’t matter.

I will continue to risk for intimacy

For the sparks of human connection

Within the immanence of death.

Experiencing the only thing that can be taken away.