WATER
Old river-thought murmurs
—I slip—
not away, but into the hush between
what holds and what lets go—
a spine of light bending softly
from mist to depth.
I remember stillness:
cupped hands at morning prayer,
a silence shaped like longing
filling with the cool of grace.
Listen—
I dwell in every pause you mistook for end.
Your name—rippled
through me, again and again,
a hymn undone by echo.
Yet I am no hymn.
I am the silence after—
unclinging—
and the weightless reach.
See how the lily leans, not in sorrow
but surrender—
a slow bow to sky-drip,
a soft
unfolding.
Where I flow is not escape
but return.
The fall is not forsaking.
The fall is
how I carry
you home.
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