i left that morning without a word to her.
what could i have whispered to this river
lying in her bed
who knows better than i
that water can not be held on to.
it must move onward.
it must change shape,
evaporate, mix with salt, form tide pools.
it must be there for mother’s cheeks
when they lose children.
this river knows
even if she could
she shouldn’t hold on.
her burden is the weight of letting go.
how else could she carry such heavy loads out to sea?
i left that morning
without a word
knowing she saw right through my reflection.
knowing she saw me as no different
than the water.
one day i’d drift down
or drop from the sky
and i would be back
by the river again.
wb
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