I wade in this water to find its source.

In this achy breaky world
I can feel like I never do enough
But what I do is greet the refugee with touch and connection
and I don't know how far into their pain it goes
But I'm doing what I can, mama.
And I'm here at the beach
(so "blessed and lucky")
And what kind of world is it that travel is a privledge?
That who I am has not been banned from moving about this place...
and yet my human heavy body still groans about
"This heat, this humidity..."
And my mom turns to me and says
"Oh well, I know what I am"
And that revives my serious head
With a chuckle of truth and
of the ease of self-acceptance
And we just are what we are
Next to the ocean,
Or elsewhere.