I.
The shape of the land, scooped out—
trenched by water.
I imitate this trickling down my throat,
cleansing my insides,
preparing for deep winter nights
and mornings quiet.

II.
You are the falls pounding down over me—
earthing and grounding me,
rooting me steady.
The cold reveals a furnace inside.
My skin houses vitality;
blood kept moving.

III.
I switched teams mid-sentence for nature—
that which carves me
from sinner to resolved intention.
Depth over fear—my mantra.
The salt of my tears reddens my lips
like He does, with want, need, and plead.

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