There is a place
where the river forgets its name,
where it stretches upward
not to escape,
but to become.

The current does not argue
with the pull of the clouds.
It simply moves-
wider,slower-
until motion becomes stillness.

We are rivers,
pretending we are maps.
Measuring,labeling,
fighting against bends
as if they were mistakes.

But the sky has no edges.
And the river,
when it is done resisting,
joins that endlessness
without regret.

Perhaps this is life-
not a journey forward,
but a return
to the place
where names are no longer needed.