She is a babbling brook, a rough sea, a crystallized lake. Her form doesn’t change her nature. She escapes through cracks in tight fingers, evaporates into air. At times she’s meant to be forded, meant to be bridged. Clear a channel and she will glide. Watch her grow the daffodils in your garden each Spring.
Other times, God help you, she is a force to be survived. Poison her with vengeance and she will swell. She will break down your doors and rust your trophies. She will split the air with her howling.
After, she will return to the Pacific. She will touch your ships with reverence.
This is all I have wanted to be, a tsunami of a woman. A force remembered only by a dusting of salinity, a history of salt.