I can hear her  

Carving out the valley below. 

She has sung this way for centuries 

In a voice I know...for 

Her tone is part of my resonance. 

The shape of her course 

Is the shape of my course. 

At times rapid, in haste 

To meet expectations 

Whether her own or someone else’s. 

Other times, slow in patience  

To form pools, back currents  

Allowing a respite for reflection. 

She is no fool. 

She knows how the quiet mingles  

With the rain & dissonant wind. 

She is not made of perfect lines. 

And on those occasions 

When the weather has darkened 

She will reshape the valley...and 

As I stand among others  

Next to lovers fallen 

With our moss-covered branches intertwined  

My roots dig into whatever mud has solidified 

Into the new path she sculpts. 

If there be no footing 

I will need my roots no more. 

All my essence, that resonance 

Shall be given back to the valley she carves 

In whatever form I will have taken 

Believer, nonbeliever, goddess or grub 

Fern, flower, or fleeting leaf 

Silence and cacophony combined.