I do not trust this ocean welling up from within.
I prefer to turn my back to the surf,
concern myself with playing with this tardy water
which seeks the tide.
These rivulets I can collect, control, manage.
I hear the crashing behind, but pay no heed—
it is receding, leaving this space in peace.
Building small muddy dams,
directing the trickles of water here, then there
collects my focus.
The water obeys me, to a point, and this control is calming.
On hands and knees, focused on building this control
directing these streams as they seek
—slowed but never thwarted—reunion,
part with the whole.
The first wave crests my ignorantly unsuspecting feet.
In one crash all control is washed away.
The raw, untamed has returned, claiming its own.
I run up, but not off, the shore.
The moon directs this ebb and flow
that of the tide, ne’er ceasing
that in me, e’er fearing.
The tide stands secure, unfazed by those insecure.