“Bend like water; like water bite.”
Advice. But what am I?
A stick tossed on the current. I
can’t bend, can’t bite, can’t
mark my way.
I’ve had my green leaves and my bloom.
Now dry, I sense the pull
of oceans I can’t navigate,
nor can I choose one threaded flow
among the rocks, muds, effluent,
but like a stick a child has thrown
into a river, I bob and turn—
thrown, and thrown away.