Worry evaporates like rain from sand
in the warm wind.
Granules of self begin to
reconstruct into a solid shape;
Suddenly I have toes
and a torso,
ears, and a nose.
The sound of the ocean transmutes
the agony of self-analysis.
It turns remnants of fear into salt,
the life-giving brine that birthed the world.
I picture my grandmother squeezing a pinch of that salt
from a tiny porcelain dish on her kitchen counter
and flicking it over her left shoulder,
asking god for protection.
The crystals hover in mid-air,
glinting in the morning light
before tumbling joyously onto the tile floor.
That which ails us
also cures us.