Humble, small, little, and kind.
Water trickling at the beginning of the time.
Smoothing, breaking, taking with it bits of rock.
Just so similar is it that she grows.
From something unheard,
to something wild and unhindered.
Maybe gracefully,
as the river flows from source to sea.
Or all at once,
she lets herself be.
Breaking through cement and space,
she is delicate dirt and black lace.
The mother of feeling, in all its forms.
The wake of 3 a.m.,
and the hurt of some dawns.
She’s the riverbank's constant cutting edge,
and the bridge’s rail-less ledge.
Have you ever felt the calm of a winter’s night?
Under the stars, and in the frost’s bite?
The moon is big, large, and magnetic.
It pulls her towards something bigger,
though she can’t see its ending.
Leading with her heart into great uncertainty.
So too the river begins, and mountain grows a spine.
Humble, small, little, and kind.
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