River

The rivers of our hearts are ancient,

dark with the soil of time,

their murmurs not a call

but the steady pulse of life,

enduring, unending.

But the river is not yours to claim;

it flows onward, relentless,

carving its own path through the landscape,

past stones that know the weight of history,

past trees that drink deeply

from its silent strength.

The current carries my words,

it is not a tributary of love for you.

It is simply the river's way,

to move, to release, to hold.

So, listen to the water,

the quiet swish and swirl,

and hear not a lover’s call

but the echo of nature’s pulse,

the way life moves through all things,

with or without us.

This river, this life,

flows for itself,

and in its depths, I am contained,

whole and complete.

Feel deeply, yes, but understand—

not every depth is a well for you to draw from,

not every current is meant to pull you in.