In a field They set her down
and named her, softly: Flower.
They wanted Form to gather there,
and Time to lock her hour.
They said: Remain. Be visible.
Be Something We can keep.
For what is held belongs to Time,
and what is Named, stays deep.
and yet
water knew
no single clock
no edge of then
or more
she did not measure
what passed through her
nor weighed
upon a shore
she warmed before
the hand arrived
moved on
without a claim
and touched the earth
altered it
beyond the mark of name
beyond the reach
of shame
They called her selfish in her flow,
They named her greedy, too,
for keeping all her ways within,
with naught for Them to view.
They raised Their ledgers up to her,
demanded she be still:
“Take shape. Be held. Become complete.
Submit yourself to will.”
and yet
water does not choose a form
that time can close around
it does not break
the living stream
by fixing
what is found
what passes through
is not undone
nor kept
as something owned
it lingers only
as a warmth
a memory
untoned
it was not flight
nor turning back
nor failure
to remain
a tenderness
so absolute
it couldn’t close
to name
For what is held becomes a Thing
that Time will wear away.
and what refuses
being kept
does not begin
to stay