by Nancy Carol Moody
The water in its ancient turning
churns its foam over jut and boulder,
augurs new and infinite departures.
This, a story that’s been told before—
upstream not a place
but a way of pushing against yourself.
A rock does not bear a name,
but knows enough to say, Make something
of yourself by resisting me.
Water like an eel, sidewinding the current.
Water like cling wrap’s crinkled obfuscation.
Water like a whistle, boring through.
Eventually something has to give.
The unimpeachable leaf will tell you
how the water only takes.