Poetry

The River’s Edge

The one who was there — or “barely there” if you asked them — stood on the bank of the river, not knowing how swift or slow the current was or what may be hidden beneath the surface. Confident they would end up somewhere along the shore, but not where that would be.

They had traveled hundreds of miles — from fields of corn and wheat, through cities and towns and forests, lived in idyllic harmony with fellow travelers and in hellish alien worlds with others who had been disfigured by events beyond their control.

They had lived decades as different beings: young, old, male, female, both male and female, neither male nor female, loved and neglected, shunned and embraced.

They had died and been reborn many times over, touched the belly of fullness and bathed alone in emptiness.

They had come to the river’s edge bearing no grudges, craving nothing, wanting nothing, open to anything, prepared to welcome demons, seraphs, devas, the unborn, and the dead.

They had no fear, no hopes, no baggage, and so closed their eyes, took several blind steps, and began wading in…