If I Were a Poet

When I was a child, I skimmed a stone across a pond.
I wonder if Jesus ever did that.
A pair of mosquitoes mate and die in the finale
of their ecstatic overture.
Three skips, and the stone sinks.

Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of tears.
One grew up; the other grew old.

Sometimes I wish I’d been born already dying
to spare me a lifetime of waiting for it.

Once I was a kite, but not satisfied,
I cut my cord to see if I could become a bird.
It was a mistake
to expect mercy from a summer breeze.