I’d like to think that your ways
are the air, the winds.
I am the water you can move, and carry mists of me with you,
though brief and fleeting
effervescent,
though you can’t see me there sometimes,
I am felt in you. I am breathed through you.
When you’re heavy with me, you are the fog.
When I’m heavy with you, I am the breaks of surf
smeared out on the sands.
Sometimes
we make a rip curl,
burrowing under me
by some unearthly gravitational force.
I swell and mix with you.
We fight for the top till
we must fall over the apex
and break over the earth,
crashing down
again and again.
Until there is no more moon
there is no separating us,
as much as they try.
The sea of our stories
will be played in by the ages
of Children and their children.
From our ritual they may find sanctuary
So long as our ritual exists
