Water and Stone

She moves, a hymn sung in waves.  

I stay, a hymn held in stillness.  

She pours herself into every crevice,  

pulls mountains smooth with her patience.  

I am grit—compressed and wide-armed,  

bearing the weight of trees, homes, time.  

She nourishes the tender roots beneath me,  

dances in loops, making the earth softer.  

And when her reach recedes, I crumble.  

My cracks run deep, aching for her touch.  

I blister under the sun’s hollow gaze,  

while she carries clouds too far away.  

When she returns, she is apology.  

I drink her in until I am whole.  

And yet, she is not mine, nor am hers.  

We belong only to this endless rhythm.