What if I cannot give you everything you need? What if, in your quest for the ocean,
I am just a puddle in the way mucking up your steps? How can I deliver you a school of fish when I am not capable of being the dream inside your head? Hear me when I say I am not your ocean. I can only be the puddle at your feet. Do not get angry for what I am. Not all those who have stomped through puddles have been led out to sea. Look at my murky face mixed with twigs and pebbles. I may not shine in the daylight but I hold the world inside my tiny self, and the more you crush me the more the water stirs.
this short life:
the white heron
snatches a fish