You can never step into the same river twice

The river swells in its bed.

Gray-brown petal-shaped swirls

blossom like lips on the surface

as the river churns its massive bulk

downstream. Leafless trees branch

from the cliffs like bones in the pale

afternoon. The sun is too feeble

to break through the sheen of clouds.

A mother with pale hair leads

her teenage daughter by the hand

toward the marsh. The girl’s eyes

are glazed. She follows her mother

quietly, almost reverently, toward the woods.



Five-minute mindfulness writing, small stone day 1, for Writing Your Way Home.

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