Where the River Knows

The river knows the weight of time,

carving songs into stone,

pulling shadows from the dawn,

letting go before they linger.

Bare feet press into dampened earth,

mud clinging like a forgotten promise,

cold enough to wake the bones—

soft enough to hold them still.

But the current shifts—

a sudden hush, a change of air,

as if the wind itself has turned,

asking, just once,

if I will stay or if I will run.

And so I kneel, hands open,

offering nothing but my presence,

watching silver ripples dance ahead,

knowing love is not pursuit,

but standing still and being found.