A paper boat drifts on a puddle,
Folded edges, faint creases, no rudder,
It floats with no purpose, no sail,
Yet it moves, ever so slight, on water stale.
It’s fragile, you see, flimsy and plain,
With ink smudged lines that tell no name.
It sinks a little when ripples arise,
But steadies itself under grey skies.
The rain might tear it, the wind could fold,
But it remains afloat, a quiet hold.
It’s going nowhere, yet doesn’t resist,
As if its drifting was meant to exist.
One could say it’s just paper and wet,
A child’s forgotten game, no regret.
But isn’t there something beneath the act,
In drifting, in yielding, in knowing it’s cracked?
Perhaps it’s not lost, but free to stray,
In stillness, in silence, day by day.
Guided by faith, though the path’s unclear,
Trust in the hands unseen, drawing it near.
A simple truth in the current it traces
Sometimes the deepest journeys leave no traces
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 1:15 PM UTC
A paper boat drifts on a puddle,
Folded edges, faint creases, no rudder,
It floats with no purpose, no sail,
Yet it moves, ever so slight, on water stale.
It’s fragile, you see, flimsy and plain,
With ink smudged lines that tell no name.
It sinks a little when ripples arise,
But steadies itself under grey skies.
The rain might tear it, the wind could fold,
But it remains afloat, a quiet hold.
It’s going nowhere, yet doesn’t resist,
As if its drifting was meant to exist.
One could say it’s just paper and wet,
A child’s forgotten game, no regret.
But isn’t there something beneath the act,
In drifting, in yielding, in knowing it’s cracked?
Perhaps it’s not lost, but free to stray,
In stillness, in silence, day by day.
Guided by faith, though the path’s unclear,
Trust in the hands unseen, drawing it near.
A simple truth in the current it traces
Sometimes the deepest journeys leave no traces
A reminder that moving without a rudder doesn't mean you're lost. Sometimes the most honest journeys are the ones where we simply yield to the current and trust in the hands unseen.
