I found you in the lap of the river
Flowing freely, lacking form.
I tried to hold you in my palm,
but my fingers were not watertight,
and all they gathered was the debris of my thoughts.
So I waited for you to turn around,
and return against the flow
while the river, fed by the valley, widened her girth,
and the mountains dissolved into bread crumbs.
I grew weary,
and even the sun seemed to leave behind a shadow.
Sometimes the twilight would mould a fleeting statue of you.
Sometimes I would see your footprints
sprinkled in the woods,
and follow them until they disappeared
into the burrows of rabbits.
I realized you had embraced obscurity.
And then while on the brink of despair,
I found a grain of you left behind on the river bank.
I planted the grain
and nurtured it.
The harvest tasted like sour wine.