What I Wouldn’t Give to Be That Waterfall

Driving through the mountains,
the road curling like ribbon
between peaks that pierced the sky,
I saw it—
a white thread unravelling
from stone to valley,
a waterfall so sure of itself
it seemed stitched into eternity.

What I wouldn’t give to be that water.
To leap without hesitation,
to fling myself into air’s open arms,
knowing gravity is not a punishment
but a promise
that I will arrive where I am meant to.

The rocks did not resist it.
They shaped it,
cupped it,
let it shimmer down their jagged face
like silk unfurling in sunlight.
And still it fell,
unyielding, unafraid—
every drop a hymn to freedom.

I ached to trade my bones
for that rush of surrender,
to dissolve into silver,
to cascade in unbroken song
with no thought of ending,
only the wild beauty of becoming.

Because the waterfall never doubts
that its tumbling abandon
will lead it somewhere vast,
somewhere glimmering,
somewhere the light
waits to gather it whole.

And oh—
what I wouldn’t give
to fall like that.

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