seasonal shift

The Tide Left Behind

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“What recedes does not vanish, it lingers in the sand, waiting to be found again.”

The tide had pulled back, leaving traces scattered across the shore. A broken shell, a tangled string of weeds, footprints pressed into damp sand, evidence that nothing ever truly disappears. What drifts away always leaves its mark, quiet but undeniable.

In the stillness of the season’s change, the tide seemed to mirror the way life pressed its echoes into unexpected places. A stranger’s story at a shop, a familiar voice on the phone, the uncanny way paths cross where they shouldn’t. Just as the water recedes, only to rise again, the people and moments we think have gone often return, different, altered, yet still carrying the imprint of before.

The tide left behind more than shells and silt. It left questions, reminders, and the uneasy knowing that what has gone out will always, in some way, come back in.

The water retreats, but it does not erase,

it leaves its memory upon the face

of stones and sand, of whispered ground,

where every echo waits to be found.

The tide withdraws with expression

what drifts away, leaves an impression.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

And as the tide whispered its return, it was clear, what comes back does not arrive the same.

When the Wild Calls in the Dawn

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Morning carries its own storm, if you rise early enough to hear it.”

The dawn arrived differently now. No boats cut across the cove, no voices spilled into the night. Instead, the wild called in quieter ways, through the rustle of branches, the sudden flight of birds, the faint sound of footsteps where no one was seen. Rising early meant stepping into a world not yet touched by noise, a world that belonged to whispers.

It was here, in the sharp edge of morning air, that the echoes carried differently. Not from parties or crowded lawns, but through chance meetings, phone calls, and unexpected threads that tied lives together. The wild had not left with summer; it had shifted shape. It lingered in the forest paths, in the way names surfaced in conversations, in the way strangers became mirrors of something known.

The dawn had its own wildness, one that could not be seen but only felt, an undercurrent moving through silence, promising that what waits just beyond will always find a way to return.

The dawn does not rise in silence,

it whispers beneath the trees,

breath of shadows bending low,

calling through the leaves.

Wildness wears a softer face,

a chill across the skin,

a whisper where the world begins,

a storm that stirs within.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

And as the morning deepened, the call grew sharper, as if the wild was waiting to reveal something hidden in the stillness.