By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 2002

I don’t remember being mountain.
I don’t need to.

Warm is one thing.
Cold, another.
Wet. Dry. Together. Scattered.

She doesn’t ask
what I’m made of.
She asks if I’m ready.

Her hands already moving.

Pour me, I become pouring.
Hold me, I become holding.
Leave me, I become waiting.
I’m good at all of them.

You count how many of me there are.
The child knows better.
There’s only one of me
playing countless games
of hide-and-seek.

When wind lifts me, I fly.
When rain packs me, I stand.
When tide takes me, I travel.

The child fills her bucket with me.
I fill her hands with quiet.

We both know the secret.
Being small
is just another way
of being everything.

She pours me out.
I become a tiny mountain.

She laughs.
I shimmer back,
catching light,
holding shape just long enough,
letting go,
beginning again.