The river’s flux
Life starts out perhaps
as a settlement on the rocks
praying to be not uprooted,
tumultuously swept away.
Later it’s more like a drenching
in the river’s flux, attached to our favorite
various buoyant debris
until comes 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.