She lets the river carry her

She does not fight the current.
Not anymore.

There was a time
she clung to the banks,
to the illusion of stillness,
to the safety of ground
that never truly held her.

But now—
she wades in.
Not with recklessness,
but reverence.
For she knows the river
is not chaos.
It is memory.
It is muscle.
It is the body of the earth
remembering how to move.

The water is cold,
but not unkind.
It winds its way through valleys
like a breath through lungs,
cutting stone,
smoothing edges,
making space.

She lets it take her.
Lets it teach her.
Lets it remind her
that surrender
is not the same as giving up—
it is trusting something older,
something truer,
to carry you
where you need to go.

There is no map here.
Only movement.
Only rhythm.
Only the pulse of water
matching the beat
in her wrist.

And when she floats,
arms open,
eyes closed,
heart unarmoured—
she feels the world
shift around her.
Feels herself become
not the branch,
not the stone,
but the river itself.