the last minus tide of Summer’s island

yesterday’s water was 
winded and capped, cloud 
filtered light intermittently refracted
through its chattering chop.
today this same water 
wears a fine reptilian ripple, 
uttering not even a mutter 
as it stretches itself towards taut. 
the tide recedes in the morning’s sleepy sun. 

fish flop in the bay, schooling
up at the mouth of a small creek.
they ready themselves 
for the short trip towards their long sleep.
their bodies returning 
to that which once created them.

and yesterday you were 
swollen with sadness or 
punctured with anger. you were 
ripe with pride
or knock-kneed and formless 
with your lack of self-worth. how difficult,
how impossible, it can appear, 
to shift how we think and feel. but
yesterday the water was in tumult, 
and today it is calm and companionable. 
and there are fish schooled up
near the mouth of the creek, and we too
can find that change is within our reach. 

to live is to be
in perplexing motion; 
in body or mind, 
in spirit, perhaps heart. 
the drowning 
you today succumb to, 
it readies you for tomorrow’s 
flight. 

fish leap from water’s textured skin.
maybe to loosen
the eggs they carry inside.
or perhaps for a quick glimpse,
the infinite ocean of our sheltering
sky. and it might be they are leaping
wild with joy,
the ageless astonishment of being
briefly alive.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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