Still, the Water is Falling

Weeks ago,

I took myself down to the waterfall,

and stood in the mist gazing up at it.

Now I sit in my room,

writing words on paper and doing my work.

Still,

the water is falling.

I drive to work, I drive home, I rest, I wake,

I drive to work, I drive home, I rest, I wake,

and still,

the water is falling.

I go to coffee shops, buy rings,

I pet dogs,

I do tasks and my many things that make up my

life,

and still the water falls.

I pay my bills, the water falls.

I get a text from an old friend, the water falls,

“I’m sorry, I miss you”

the water falls.

All the heartbreak in the world could be resting

on my shoulders and the

moss growing on the walls of that

pond will still be soft,

the mist still able to calm my aching skin,

the rocks still noble in their stance

against the pour.

I live a life,

and the water falls.

And a few tasks down the road,

when I have kids of my own,

I will take them to it,

have them bask in it as I have,

and remind them that if they have nothing else,

if the busy world of

people and “importance”

give them no place to rest their head,

that this can be where they return to find

themselves in the grand scheme,

that no matter what,

that still,

the water is falling.