Two rivers converged,
Their contents combined,
Giving birth to a swirl of life…
From chaos came order,
from void arose form,
A new being danced into the light.
It started so small,
It could barely be seen,
Surroundings and self intertwined.
But the pattern grew larger:
A whirlpool formed.
And with that was its selfhood defined.
As water flowed through,
It twisted in bliss,
Its soul was the cool summer rains.
But its vigor diminished,
As autumn approached,
And the cyclone’s source waters soon waned.
Then the whirlpool said:
“What’s it like to be dead?”
But the water which asked this had gone.
As new water flowed in,
It asked yet again,
But it realized the question was wrong.
“If I’m always changing,
My life but a flow,
How can there be hope that I’ll last?
“When the self that I was,
While pondering death,
In this moment, already has passed?”
As its channels dried up,
It felt itself fade,
Going back into that which it came.
Without fear. Without sorrow.
As it was born again,
Resurrected with each spring’s new rain.
~R.Stover