I’m sitting at the side of the Seymour River,
watching the water
blast by
and I can’t help
but picture the feeling of
being ripped by the flow,
smashing into stones.

Suddenly a fallen leaf floating like a feather on the surface flits by, drifting in
and out of
my vision,
and I think that a thousand careless leaves must ride the river’s current
every day.

On my best days, I let my fetters
float
on
by
me,
but at my worst, the river of my experience
pushes me back into the flow
and I fight the current
and I always
lose.