Perfect.

It's everything, really.
It's all the things that were,
And all that could have been.
Everything I was
and all the things I'll never be.
It's a world of possibility that's closing in on me
And my struggle to cross gracefully
A raging red giant
Flinging the vestiges of my violent youth out
Into space,
Into nothingness.

It's memories only half remembered
Moments I'll never have again.
The things we expected that
Never came to be.
Or things we never dreamed,
Somehow now held close.
It's the distance.
Or, the suffocating closeness.
It's the terrible idea that maybe,
Just maybe I can accept and transform
All of the guilt and loneliness and regret into the feeling that
For once,
And all,
I am enough.
I do enough.
I see and hear and give and love enough.
That there is no better to be had here,
And that the things I have right here,
Right in front of me,
That even I myself -
Am perfect.
Enough.
Whole.
All.
Both.

Enough.

High Tide.

I watched the sand get swept away
This morning
With Winter breathing heavy down my neck.
She heaves her chest in great sighs of frustration
Blows at the beaches
Chasing Summer's last errant children off.

If I listened, just a little
If I paid more than passing attention
I might hear her whispering anger and
She might sweep me off my feet, too.
I turn my back, keep walking East before
Winter brings the waves that crash,
And call me home.