Where the River Knows

I step where the earth is damp,

where the river bends like a question mark,

carving the land with a patient hand,

never asking if it belongs.

Pebbles shift beneath my feet,

tumbled smooth by time’s insistence,

like the way love reshapes a heart

without a sound.

The wind stirs—a hush, a hush—

pulling clouds into slow-motion swirls,

shaking the leaves loose

until they dance like lost letters

never sent.

I wonder, do they still reach someone,

floating, spinning, searching?

And then—

the river catches light just right,

turns silver, turns gold,

turns into something I cannot hold.

And yet, I see it now, clear as the sky—

love is not the thing we keep,

but the thing that keeps us.

Somewhere beyond the bend,

the water moves on,

unchanged, yet never the same.