Sea
You are the garden hose goddess,
moonbutch in a floppy hat,
rinsing apples and toddlers
with the same gentle force.
You say less and know more.
You carry the hydroflask, real food,
a sense of proportion.
You are the reason we survive airports.
You take the photos.
You hold the thread.
You are sea—steady, deep,
hot as hell in direct sunlight.
Sky
I’m the one who forgets the wipes
but remembers every line from every film.
I pack three notebooks, no snacks.
I sing nonsensical songs about nothing and everything
and call it a rough draft.
I am wind in stripes,
a storm in scuffed up Docs,
the one who weeps on museum benches
and forgets the stroller brake.
I am sky—scattered, spell-casting,
screaming a lullaby at golden hour.
Soil
And you.
Our goblin king.
Tiny agent of chaos.
You eat receipts.
You slap bananas.
You shriek like a velociraptor
and we still applaud.
You fall off furniture like it’s a lifestyle.
You fall asleep holding a truck,
a rock, and part of a sock.
You are soil—wild, loud,
and somehow always sticky.
We are tantrums and splash days,
405 traffic and lost pacifiers.
We are weird and exhausted and laughing anyway.
A family, by snuggles and snack and sweat.
Three signs, one spell.
Sky, Sea, Soil.
