Rising, Falling

I will go down to where sand touches foam,
To where foam touches waves;
This is what the fish call home.

I will go up to where the floating water soars,
Glad to go down again
And touch a fisherman's oars.

Those oars were made from far abroad,
From a young oak tree
Handmade by God.

On this tree and others, on and on before my sight,
Mother Earth's floating water will rain down on
Day and night.

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I wrote this poem when I was 13 years old. It is the first poem I ever wrote, and is very close to my heart.