timing tides


we still not, turned away to only see the same reflected backwards,

tides are timed by the shifts of a lunarity that does not stand alone, only out of your hands it arises in bleeding palms sinking to the earth,

where the full and the new shed the same, where she looks upon and sees the standard of a wakeful hope now lingering in dreams that speak of the surrender,

return the sisters to seeing, not out of a desperation, not in a defeating stance, in one that sees clearly the horizon and the ships that set sail along it, bearing the fruits of a planted watering that looks no longer recognizable, it is something felt

~ it is a collection of feeling.


Copyright 2019 ⓒ / Forrest Gallagher