Lately I’ve been thinking about the four elements — not as symbols, but as sensations. The things that shape us without asking. Water you can “hear” if you listen hard enough. Air that tightens in the chest. Fire that closes in. Earth that keeps what we bury — and sometimes gives it back.
These four poems move through that sequence: water, air, fire, earth. Not as a neat cycle, but as a way of noticing what the body remembers.
Water — Seashell
I used to hear the ocean
in a seashell.
As a child,
I pressed my ear
against it,
listening hard
until a red mark formed
on my skin.
I thought I heard the waves
sing faintly from its depth—
but it was just the wind
passing through
the crease.
When I was younger, I loved the idea that something vast could live inside something small. Even now, I like how the ending doesn’t cancel the magic—it just changes it. Wind, wave, crease: the world still makes music. We just learn what it’s made of.
Air — A Hand Over My Mouth
You asked me
to lower my voice,
not to speak so loudly—
to tiptoe through the rooms,
not disturb the peace,
never make a sound.
But in my throat
there’s an itch.
I cough anyway,
hand over my mouth,
teeth clenched—
and still it leaks out.
Too hard to hold my breath,
I walk outside
and inhale.
Enjoy your empty room.
Keep your silence now.
Air is where voice lives—and where it’s policed. I wrote this one thinking about how often “peace” is just another word for control. How the body refuses to cooperate with obedience. How even a cough can become a kind of answer.
Fire — Float Still
Wildfires graze the western hills.
Heavy air,
filling my chest.
Smoke and embers
close in.
Will the flames slow down—
not reach my door?
Will they take a different path
through scrub and debris?
Travel silently,
except for twigs snapping,
leaves sighing.
If I hide,
will it find me anyway?
I sink into the water,
hold my breath,
float still.
Fire spreads, it changes direction, it makes its own weather. This poem lives in that split-second logic—if I stay still enough, will it pass me by? The question underneath isn’t only about flames. It’s about what pursues us when we try to disappear.
Earth — Unearthed
April falls like rain,
leaving drops
on my windowsill.
Tiny pools
of hidden hope
when dark clouds
roll in.
Dew remains
on the tender blade
just beneath
the quiet soil.
And everything
we’ve hidden
is unearthed
by the flood.
Earth is where things rest — until they don’t. I love the contradiction here: hope is small and quiet, but so is what we bury. Sometimes it takes weather to bring anything back to the surface.
If you had to choose one element you’ve been living in lately — water, air, fire, or earth—which would it be? And what does it feel like in your body?
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