Water levels rise and fall against wet green grasses.
Crane stands still in the distance, a delicate white body and far reaching neck.
With time the estuary reveals tidal changes, emanating potent smells of salted seas.
Cold waters have warmed with the summer season,
Particles of sand hold rays of sunshine, crabs scurry sideways as water skims over rough rocks.
Coming closer, drifting away.
The flow can not be captured or dammed;
Rhythmic nature moves, is a force, and will build up again until it breaks.
The same goes for me,
Mysterious, vast, and deep,
Unable to be defined by the mind.
Still I swell, and continuously return back to myself.
Just like the ocean, just like the sea,
Changing like the estuary.
Red Moon Release
Shed does the lining that held stories of a time passed.
I’ve been living a fantasy, in which I had you play a part, all the while you’re gone.
The soft muscles of my body clench with ideas of you and what we could have been.
Down there tightens, squeezing the last drop of memories left to be released.
Wishful thinking and fictitious hopes have had their time; captured and consumed for long enough.
Contractions bring me to my knees, and further still, wailing and weeping.
Tears and blood, tears and blood.
This cycle is complete.
I wonder if the wind feels resistance when it blows,
If raindrops are afraid to merge with the flows of rivers and seas no longer being just their own.
I wonder if the sun realizes the brightness of its light and if it wishes to become dark.
I wonder if the dark side of the day accepts itself in all of its ways,
If tornadoes feel shame for how they spin out in different directions.
I wonder if trees consider themselves too big or too small, wishing that they were their neighbor.
And if the moon reflects on how it affects others,
If animals consider their actions before they happen,
If the earth herself wishes she were more square and less round,
And if she contemplates withholding her abundance for the sake of herself.
I wonder if soil thinks of its companions,
If rocks know their strength,
If fire sees how much it can consume and transform.
I wonder if plants become scared in thunderstorms,
Or if they have faith in their dying back and being reborn.
I wonder if seasons think about cycles and rhythmic routines,
If pollution sees solutions to becoming clean.
I wonder if avalanches dwell on problems,
If mountains feel the weight of snow,
And if snow fears melting and letting go.
Author: Julie MacAdam
Image: Kelly Austin/Unsplash
Editor: Emily Bartran