The river's flux
Life starts out perhaps
a settlement on the rocks
praying to be not uprooted,
tumultuously swept away,
while later it's more like a drenching
in the river's flux, attached to our favorite
various buoyant debris
until the prompting to hold nothing
but the running current river through our fingers,
letting go all imaginary, stationary refuge, stability,
the vestigial illusions of our sedentariness
and then lastly letting go the idea entirely
of a river as life upon reaching
the beyond conception, shoreless sea.
O child of God, your bread has been cast
with little time left for its returning.
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