It’s the raging river and the quiet stream; the boundless ocean and the first drop of rain after a drought. It can be as clear as noontime air or as murky as midnight fog. It can be baked into bread, and written on paper.
It intertwines all things, the lifeblood beyond the human heart. Give it a vessel and it takes on its shape; you, me, the world.
It’s an element of the gods and the building blocks of life itself. Its siblings, passion and compassion, swim in its wake, testing rapids, navigating eddies.
It can be held, slip through the smallest fracture, weigh you down, lift you up. It can drown you and preserve you. It can nourish and define you. It can be given, taken, rejected, returned.
It changes its shape as ice turns to steam and boils as fast as it cools.
It is a window to a mirror, a reflection, a wavelength. It is entropy, it is equilibrium.
It is you,
it is me,
it is the world.
And we call it love.
Not totally sure what this is, but it wanted to be written out.
Arbor Winter Barrow 
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