Within her

Mothecombe
iii.

The water goes where wanted,
proclaimed, pronounced,
cuts new chains and pathways,
connects rivers unattached.

She assaults senses, is entirely unreasonable,
unpredictable, could whip you into rocks
if you are without guard
in depths of her.

She has wholely reckless capabities,
the strength to feed seeds,
and softly drown them,
to give life, wipe slate clean.

The water is a body, a marvel, a god,
and in the sink of her I often find
a profound way to reconnect
with myself.