A gentle tide beats
against the shore
of an inner landscape.
At times, swimming from
sleep, blinking through the
undercurrent, a restlessness
still swirls
in the early light
demanding difference.
There is no shame
in longing,
no weakness
in craving comfort.
It is the tide
that pulls away
from rocky shores,
destitute
and invulnerable
to erosion.
It is the darkness
in which hands open
breath holds
and between spirits
where fingers clasp.
