The river’s still but a trickle,
Just a whisper, just a tickle. . .

Wonder what it will become?
When it converges in a sum.

What direction will it take?
When there is much more at stake.

How many will be carried off?
When the flow’s no longer soft.

To what ocean will it drain?
When we’ve had enough pain.

How this trickle tickles me.
In a way I could not see.

But as, of course, I surely feel.
The hazard holding its appeal.

What shall I do with this trickle?
Seems to me, quite the pickle.

Do I end it here and now?
Or do I watch and just allow?

Perhaps this trickle’s just a part,
Of something that will never start.

Perhaps this trickle’s just a hope,
Of wild, untamed slippery slopes.

Perhaps I’ll never really know,
If I should have let it go.

Perhaps this is the time to cross,
When being wrong has little cost.
© 2022 TheRememberings Ltd.

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