Standing alone in life's river . . .
taking in its vastness,
incomprehensible of its beginning and end,
for it can not be seen,
except . . . what lays before me,
be its peaceful calm or its rage,
depending on external forces not of its control.
Its rocks . . .
grouped or alone,
held within her bed,
stuck in-time . . .
yet her waters wash each crevice,
polishing its ragged edges to smoothness,
bringing out the beauty held within.
Releasing granules overtime . . .
to be a part of its greater whole,
creating something new,
a cushioning . . .
for what obstacles may take hold
as the water's power sends.
Many unknown tributaries . . .
to explore while travelling
life's river meandering ways,
even to its constriction,
obliterating her flow
to almost nothingness.
Leaving the river's full life force . . .
to maintain an entrance,
to naturally change its course,
if chosen not to explore her tributary veins
or to cleanse her overgrowth from obscurity.