It’s good to feel small sometimes,
To look out into a vast space,
Especially in times of great change,
And to know you’re in someplace.

The whistle of searing wind,
Sweeping you off your feet,
Ripping and rustling through woods,
Floating plastic bags in the street.

Woozy from the whirl,
A kite in a tornado,
A minnow in a tsunami,
A blade in a meadow.

Splash in the puddle,
Play the game,
But don’t forget your rainboots,
You need something to claim.

Push your marshmallow in the fire,
Transform it into a torch,
Reach your hand to the embers,
Close enough to scorch.

Make sure you’re still there.