The river's flux

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.