What the River Holds

Water remembers everything it touches— the stone's ancient patience, the leaf's brief gold, my hand trailing through current like writing that dissolves as quickly as it forms.

The river doesn't keep. It passes, carrying forward what it cannot hold. Names whispered into dusk, promises that scatter like light through ripples.

Yet something stays: the river knows the weight of every pebble it has moved, the shape of shores that shaped its running.

I drink from it and carry it inward— not the water itself, but the motion, the permission to move while staying true, to flow and still be myself.