The Ebbing Season

The sky splits open,

red dirt bleeding into the horizon,

and I am standing somewhere between

collapse and composure,

counting breaths into a box.

The cicadas scream

and the air smells of eucalyptus rot—

stale, 

and sweet,

and sour,

and heavy. 

I can’t tell if the noise is outside

or inside my head.

It buzzes in my ears

keeping rhythm with my pulse. 

Some days I am a wildfire,

unstoppable, 

electric;

Full of fight,

and fury,

A force of nature. 

As unstoppable 

as a summer storm.

Other days,

I’m ash in a cold tin can,

barely remembering the spark.

There’s a hum in the air tonight,

like power lines before a storm.

I move, slow, deliberate,

in the half-light of almost capable.

And when the fog rolls in,

when my limbs turn to sand and my thoughts to stone,

I whisper to myself—

this is not regression,

this is the tide retreating to gather force again.

Still—

it feels like drowning in reverse,

like the moment before drowning,

when the lungs beg for decision,

but the water

doesn’t yet care.

Ghost gums lean toward me,

their bark pale as regret.

They creak with the weight 

of too much knowing.

If I listen hard enough,

I can hear them say:

It’s all ebb.

It’s all flow.

You’re supposed to be confused here.