It is easy – easier – to imagine that at the first stirring of the breeze,
Everything ought to be thrown to the wind. The tides are going out
But does that mean that everything on the shore will be swept away?

When I feel the gurgle of the waves on my feet, is it feasible that
God does not intend for me to be drowned? I stand in a pool of possibility:
Root myself deeper in the sand, or surrender myself to the sea. I think

My mother worries about me, 300 miles away, because in our
Distance she senses dissonance. I am the rock face bruised by the wind –
But only because I want to be. She is the lighthouse entreating me to come in

Off the water’s edge, and join her where it is safe and light and where she can
Train her gaze on me in all my darkest days. Am I tempted? Her unblinking eye
Implores me to be honest. How far must I cast my beams for you to find me?

The spray of salt reaches my side before I can answer, and brine beats Light in this race. Storms come and go, and I watch them and hope
For the sake of my mother that when I cry, it goes unheard under
The squall. The wind and waves, unrelenting, ground me in humility.

After all, when a sea-weary sailor spots a lighthouse, does his hand
Quiver on the tiller to change his course, or does the quiet thrilling thought of home
Encompass him, comfort him, call him to stay steady ahead!

We steer clear of the lighthouse: we keep our eyes level,
Our emotions at bay, and clew our sails for the cliff,
A brooding entity rising out of the ocean, recalcitrant: resistant.

My mother keeps my flame burning from another state.
Tender stoking, stalwart tending. I stand tall not because
I know she sees me, but because I can see her doing the same,

Daring the sea to stifle her laugh, her light.

Each year, we arrive at the same knot of woods, having drawn the same straw.
We grasp, trembling, at what we imagine to be certain death:
A leaf, edges curved up, orange crudely splashed across green.

But would you spare a second thought for the falling leaf that subsumes your life?
Think. Why would the world continuously dash herself
Into pieces, render herself to ash, if she were not made of
Such stuff as phoenixes? Nature goes up into flames each year
With little to no ado, and heals herself without fuss.

Leaves throw themselves from great heights not in pursuit of ruination but of
Revival. Year after year after year we are asked this much:
Allow me to unfurl the fist with which you are clinging to this tree.
Comfort lies in confiding, confessing, and conceding. There is no need to be
Stronger than the Earth’s heart when she is offering it up
To you so singularly. Grant yourself this: that she wants you to
      Smile and shine and grow.

Do you fear your fate in this moment? You misinterpret.
The blameful breeze you imagine you feel is, in actuality,
Earth’s unremitting whisper, pressed into your skin:
“Do as the leaves do. Follow, and fall. You are forgiven.”