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.
Undisturbed quiet.
Industrious
futility.
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.
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