I approach the shoreline of morning,
as the crescent moon hangs limp,
when a woman with two heavy swords
stands by my bed.
I pluck off my sleep mask that I’ve worn for many years
as she voices a message I won't ever forget:
“The winter is for the warrior
and hard plums of faith.
Spring is the time to return
to the warm lakes of grace.”
I follow her to the broken waters
and dream of dropping my heavy coat.
To one day aspire
and become something
like seaform—or, perhaps, the fog
that quenches when the earth needs something to drink.
