It’s curious how some of us are coconuts.
Seeds drifting for decades in a desert
That holds nothing for us, except waves
And more waves, and storms we survive
Only because our shells are thick and hard.
Inside we may be milk and fruit,
But to the waves, to the sharks, and sea snakes
We are walls, unappetizing walls.
We’re well protected, it’s true,
But we’re not alive either. Not really.
Only in name — and this can go on
For decades, even decades without living.
Then we beach! Most of us never do.
A shoot grows from us, reaches for sunlight,
Turns green with youth, with beauty, with dreams.
Though we might be old, very old, when that happens.
Another shoot grows from us, too.
Grows down deep where fresh waters pool,
Waiting to renew our souls.
Curious how when we at last come alive
The first thing we do is break out of our shells,
Make ourselves open and vulnerable.
Until the moment we beached
We were passive; our wisdom, just DNA and chance,
Though we told ourselves we were captains
Of great ships shaping their own destiny.
But only later on the beach are we alive.
Only on the beach do we flourish.
But I have a few questions now…
How did we know without any experience
We were at last on the beach?
Why did we never try
To put down roots in the sea?
Or did some of us try,
And they were those who never
Made it ashore?