The Med is restless.
She fights her boundaries and her limitations.
Medville has pushed back the sand she threw on the promenade and on the road.
She tore at the jetties.
Currents and southern winds ripped sea grass and piled it high on the beach, shaping canyons and faults over sand and pebbles.
The Med wants to spread out and carve a new bed.
She wants to bite into the cliff, push against the mountain, dance her way into the stream beds that carry relics from up high along with the sighs and whispers of oaks and heather.
But she can’t.
Time is not on her side.
Medville prepares for throngs of visitors who come to play in clear blue and turquoise seas.
“Sublimate”, says the sun throwing sparkles on her shivers.
“I will shine and watch you scale mountains. I will burn for the moon as you reach the sky”…
The Med stills. Small waves roll sea grass on the shore in shallow breaths.
Smooth grey water lies flat under the gaze of the spring sun.
And slowly, imperceptibly, she evaporates. Losing substance in twirling molecules, she dissipates in hushed silence, and floats away in a space she does not control.
She spins then weaves a shroud that blunts shadows and blurs edges, covering the sky all the way from the mountain to Africa…
“Will you disappear if I melt to nothingness?” she asks softly, closing her eyes.
The sun smiles.
“Do you not know that love feeds the sun, and that everyone and everything loves the sun? Have you forgotten that you are just a small blue spot among many that I touch?”
“No” she answers as a white butterfly skims the air looking for his shadow, “but you are the only sun I know, the only one I dance and sing for.”
The sun pokes a hole in the white mantle and traces a silver line on her gray skin in a barely-there heat.
“If I love you any more it will destroy you” he writes.
“If I love you any less, will I still make sailors dream?
Will sprites still skip down their mountains to play in tidal pools and dream of whale songs?
Will sharp rocks and broken glass still tumble into smooth gifts or worry stones on the edge of a wave?
Will broken tree limbs and roots still become driftwood that tells stories?
If I love you any less, will my soul die and my heart become stone?” she wonders as the first raindrop–water vapor clinging to a grain of sand in a glorious dream–falls on ochre dust in a starburst.