Image by Roman Grac from Pixabay

 

The heaviness of everything
Disproportionate to soft air
Determines that I curve and slow
I bend here and there as things
Flatten and form an arc

No one will seek out my source
Compete with others to splash into it
“Here it is,” says no one.

Even the little stones do not float
But old branches or dry blades of grass
Move like magic, away from the center
Away from this very time

I do not join them, although
They impinge into my trunk
Like a tree, like a tree’s roots
So near the water, and yet so far away.