Perhaps it was the summer I was four -
a rogue wave swallowed me - one of my aunts
was there to pluck me out. "You'll live," she frowned.
Since then, big water's something I endure,
but never love. Can I swim? Not a chance,
nor do I sail - I'd rather stay aground.
Don't pity me my dry life - I'm content
away from lake and ocean, pond and sound.
But if there's some wet, desperate circumstance,
if some great flood falls from the firmament,