Estuary

The River carries words softly, her rhythm, my cadence, her flow, my home. I drift where the stars fall, their light a map I cannot follow— only feel. Deeper now, the River’s current hums. The Poet has run out of lines— their ink dissolving into the tide. Her banks disappear, leaving only sky and salt, an estuary too wide to hold. The River’s lifeblood carries me, not to drown—but to bear my weary soul onward— where breath becomes wind, and the words to render never really end.