The River
When rivers are young, they are violent.
They cut stone, tear mountains apart,
carve deep gorges and leap in wild, foaming waterfalls.
Their strength is restless, destructive, loud.
As age finds the same river, its fury softens.
The rush becomes a drift, the roar a murmur.
Energy fades into patience,
and the once-reckless waters move slowly,
heavy with memory,
ready to surrender themselves to lakes or the open sea.
Life follows this same rhythm.
In youth, we break and burn,
desperate to leave our mark upon the world.
In time, we learn that depth is not born of speed,
and that gentleness, too, can shape the earth.
At last, like the river,
we are not lost in the ocean -
we become part of something wider,
quieter,
and enduring
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