The stars above St. George Island
rise over the gulf of Mexico
and whisper that we are not
so important, such little specks
in a vast universe.

The girl running the game
at the carnival
sucks on a popsicle
and gazes out into the distance.

Somewhere, in our DNA
or in the blood we hail as life,
we remember our beginnings.

There is beauty
in the imperfect pictures,
in the rough, blurry
outlines of life.

There is more than one hammer
to test your strength,
more than one way
to win a bear.