“Being a glacier, I remember birth,
The waves of stars falling over the years,
White, six-pointed stars descending to form
My soul. On my birthday, it always snows.
Being the sea, you wait for everything
With motherly love. You eat continents
Of land, continents of ice. Your blue tongue
Catches snow. You taste like salt. You make sand.
I’m inland now, grinding the path that ends
At your door. I’ll pause for weeks on the shore
Before I let go. You will let me in
Then begin to melt me down as I float.
Months later you’ll ask me, “Do you love me?”
I’ll answer you, “Does the sea love the sea?”—Douglas Woodsum: Melting (via grammatolatry)