Grounded in Water

What is it about the water?

Is it that I am Earth,

and my dry, parched soul

desperate for divine liquidity,

so that I can take root,

and blossom?

Her luscious lapping waves,

caress my wayward mind,

offering tidal lullabies

that soften my emery edges

with salted foam.

Even the rhythmic,

plucking,

drops,

that slide down my pane,

smooths the spirals

of my mind,

that have tried to knot me,

bind me, chain me to those old patterns.

The baptismal ritual of her

pours over me,

aligning the crooks of my spine,

reforming the fractures

of broken, brittle dreams,

the steam wrapping me

in the foggy ghost of hope.

I stand in full vulnerability,

beckoning,

longing,

to be cleansed,

and for the land of me

to always be grounded

in water.