What I feel are rivers filled
with droplets made of life.

Like water, life rushes
over stone, yet wears
through mountains
over many years.

Lakes are memories
met by many rivers.

States of mind
are crossroads,
cross rivers.

Which channel
will I flow through?
How many times?

How deep will
I let it go, before
it becomes so dark
that I cannot see
the bottom?

—

Along the river are trees,
wooden waterways.
They grow with the
flow of the river.

Each new branch, growing,
shedding old leaves, casting
new shade, reaching new light.

New life.