The river's flux

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.