The tide withdraws, leaving salt-etched lines,
kelp curled like loose strands along the shore.
Gulls brace against the wind, their wings drift,
while a crab, buried, waits for the next wave.

Two figures walk, their steps dissolving behind them,
fingers brushing once, then parting like foam—
driftwood leans where the water lets it.

This world grows in me—
stone and root,
water bending like sorrow—
the river rises,
catching smooth stones,
carrying all that has been broken.

She spills—
cunning as a courtesan,
her movements deliberate—
a quiet confidence in every curve,
never losing herself.

Her hands shape the world she touches—
soft enough to cradle,
brave enough to let go.

The mountain pauses—
a quiet thinker.
Each step is careful,
his resolve etched in stone,
teaching me to belong—
to stand firm.
Even when the wind cuts,
even when the world
shivers beneath me.

And the forest—
ancestral,
speaks of skies torn apart,
alive with things
I’ve never seen before—
its roots speak softly,
a quiet inheritance of strength.
It whispers of lives lived long gone—
a story written in every leaf,
a hand outstretched
from every branch,
reminding me—

I am their breath,
their silence, their strength—
through stone and root,
water and sky,
this world grows within me—

I am not alone—
none of us are.