Poetry

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 0 views

The river doesn't keep a single thing — it only ever passes what it's given, a leaf, a name shouted from the bridge, a ring tossed in by someone no longer forgiven. And yet we call it keeper, call it deep, as if the water pooled our griefs somewhere, as if the current paused enough to keep the weight we couldn't carry anywhere else. Maybe that's the gift of moving on — not holding what we drop into its bed, but proving, calm and constant, something's gone somewhere, has passed, is elsewhere now instead. I bring my losses to the bank each spring. The river doesn't keep them. That's the thing.