Pond Scum

To touch pond scum is to be alive.
To sense the changing wind is to grow old. 
To smell a storm is historic—
Wiser than the scripts the winemakers roll.

No parchment should bare rare leaf. 
No scribes should pull straws for names. 
We can undo our unassigned outfits—
And turn cotton into sugarcane. 

We all know men become men at 33.
What of women then? 
Perhaps they were always aged riped. 
Dropped here to mend our whims.

Someday the air will be the thinnest—
That the air has ever been.
And on that day will you pray for ascension—
Or flesh your gills and swim?

Only the Sea may tell.
Yet here I sit—
Before a pond.