THE TIDE OF CHANGE
The Tide of Change
The forecast whispers only of change,
a restless tide reshaping the world’s edges.
New phases of the moon carve silver arcs,
leaves blush crimson, gold, then drift from branches,
scattering promises of seasons yet to come.
New allegiances flicker on the horizon,
tentative as stars breaking through dawn’s veil,
binding us to futures we cannot yet name. Each sunrise spills a clean slate across the sky,
a canvas of coral and amber, unblemished,
erasing the anger we cradle in sleep’s shadow.
It washes the heart of grudges held too long,
their jagged edges softened by morning’s glow,
inviting us to begin again, unburdened,
to trace new paths where old wounds fade. Yet the world hums with hollow tales—
Xboxes and screens peddling fleeting fantasies,
promising nine lives, extra men, endless do-overs.
But life is no game with reset buttons;
each moment spent is a coin never reclaimed.
We are fragile, singular, bound to one thread,
weaving through time’s unyielding loom. I open my door to forgiveness,
bidding it slip off its weary shoes,
to rest in the warmth of my flawed hearth.
Let it linger, a guest who knows my stumbles,
who sees the cracks in my pride and stays.
There’s room here for mistakes—
spilled words, missteps, the weight of regret—
for they are the map of a life fully lived. Change is no gentle guest; it storms through,
uprooting certainties, scattering what we cling to.
Like rivers carving canyons, it reshapes us,
eroding the stubborn stone of old habits.
Yet in its wake, it leaves fertile ground,
where seeds of hope might take root,
where we learn to bend, not break,
under the weight of what’s to come. And so, I stand at dawn’s threshold,
watching the sky rewrite itself in light.
I welcome the shifting tides, the falling leaves,
the moon’s quiet turning, the heart’s slow mending.
Forgiveness sits at my table, sharing my bread,
teaching me to forgive myself first—
to hold space for the beautiful, broken human I am,
knowing change is the only constant,
and mistakes, the only way we grow.
a restless tide reshaping the world’s edges.
New phases of the moon carve silver arcs,
leaves blush crimson, gold, then drift from branches,
scattering promises of seasons yet to come.
New allegiances flicker on the horizon,
tentative as stars breaking through dawn’s veil,
binding us to futures we cannot yet name. Each sunrise spills a clean slate across the sky,
a canvas of coral and amber, unblemished,
erasing the anger we cradle in sleep’s shadow.
It washes the heart of grudges held too long,
their jagged edges softened by morning’s glow,
inviting us to begin again, unburdened,
to trace new paths where old wounds fade. Yet the world hums with hollow tales—
Xboxes and screens peddling fleeting fantasies,
promising nine lives, extra men, endless do-overs.
But life is no game with reset buttons;
each moment spent is a coin never reclaimed.
We are fragile, singular, bound to one thread,
weaving through time’s unyielding loom. I open my door to forgiveness,
bidding it slip off its weary shoes,
to rest in the warmth of my flawed hearth.
Let it linger, a guest who knows my stumbles,
who sees the cracks in my pride and stays.
There’s room here for mistakes—
spilled words, missteps, the weight of regret—
for they are the map of a life fully lived. Change is no gentle guest; it storms through,
uprooting certainties, scattering what we cling to.
Like rivers carving canyons, it reshapes us,
eroding the stubborn stone of old habits.
Yet in its wake, it leaves fertile ground,
where seeds of hope might take root,
where we learn to bend, not break,
under the weight of what’s to come. And so, I stand at dawn’s threshold,
watching the sky rewrite itself in light.
I welcome the shifting tides, the falling leaves,
the moon’s quiet turning, the heart’s slow mending.
Forgiveness sits at my table, sharing my bread,
teaching me to forgive myself first—
to hold space for the beautiful, broken human I am,
knowing change is the only constant,
and mistakes, the only way we grow.
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