Maybe we should never remain the same.
Like the water in a fast moving stream,
We must move to meet with the bights we claim.
We must grow, hit the tracks to build up steam.
Allow the torrents treat us unfairly.
Take blows below the belt that feel extreme.
We must choose to be, and not not to be.
Like that seed, we must touch the ground and die
Or become just a stranded cup of tea.
And to all and sundry who wouldn’t try,
There are reasons some hands look like badlands.
Water won’t be all that falls from the sky.
There’s once a wilderness where this now stands.
Something happened after the wave of hands.