She
She is not only moonlight laid gently across a sleeping lake, she is also the tide that tears cliffs into memory.
She was dew quiet and delicate, but she remembers she was rain before she learned to fall softly,
A storm before an apology.
The forest is not peaceful because it is weak. She cradles small things and swallows empires with the same hands.
She is the ocean refusing containment, salt-lunged and ancient. She is wild and feral, uncontained just like the wind.
There’s something quietly powerful in this.
I like how it starts in softness and then, almost without announcing it, shows the weight behind it. That shift from dew to storm, from calm to something much older and less containable—it lingers.
“the tide that tears cliffs into memory” is a line that sticks.
It feels less like a contrast between gentle and strong, and more like a reminder they’ve always been the same thing.