I am reminded.
What seems like a ground,
dividing root from bloom and branch,
is really a wrack line,
water pushing in what it will beach and shore.
I am reminded.
Nothing can be written in the water,
and, but for land, nothing can climb out of it.
The ground, by its nature,
tames and stills what is too wild for words,
but we forget, I think,
that to tame something is to break it.
I am reminded.
We can only live alongside our stories,
never in them.
Like the water,
we push them out before rolling back,
leaving what can be walked,
leaving what can be known,
but never ourselves.
I am reminded.
We are not tamed.
We are not broken.
We do not begin or end.
We are the water,
becoming flood and storm
whenever land begins to believe
it contains us.
I am reminded.
Land is only water, withdrawn,
moving,
collecting itself again.
I am reminded.
What seems like a ground,
never is.
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