LIKE WATER
It starts in silence.
Deep down.
Where listening lives.
Not words—
older.
Older than moons wept for their orbit.
She stands.
No mask.
No shield.
The world draws—
at her edges.
And she…
glows.
Shimmers to the slow whisper of tide,
to the hush calling for motion.
She IS motion.
A drip of sun on glass.
The hush of time
on a once-sharp stone.
She is not the chisel—
She is the hand.
The one that stays.
That forgives the shaping.
She moves…
and the world remembers.
Look at her.
See how she folds
into the curve of living.
Notice how the moon
spills silver
at her feet—
a secret
not secret at all.
She does not disappear.
She be-comes.
She warps gravity—makes it gentle.
Softens the sharp.
Tells the story of passing through.
The world is not vacant.
It anticipates.
Contains the not-yet.
Provides space for the arriving.
Soft things survive.
Not by volition.
Not by designation.
And when she breaks—
she does not b
r
e
a
k.
She leans
until the edge…
learns to yield.
No splinter.
Only rewrite.
She doesn't crush—
She s m o o t h s.
She instructs the solid
to shift.
She becomes the line
between sky and sea—
the hands that move the light.
No end.
Only motion.
No limit.
Only stretch.
To yield
is to know what comes next.
To break—
is to bloom.
Light seeps through every crack she leaves—
spills its soft insistence,
a gift.
She makes abundance
from absence.
She holds the unholdable.
She calls it—
grace.
She is the hush
before the quake.
The breath
of wet stone.
The mirror
in the sky’s long stare.
She is all of it—
the tremble,
the hush,
the quiet power
remaking the world.
Call her nothing.
Call her hymn.
Call her motion.
Watch her move—
unseen.
Unheard.
The quiet force.
The current beneath.
Rebuilding the world.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment