It started sharp, with jagged face,
All angles, edges, out of place.
Too rough to hold, too raw to keep,
Dropped by the mountain into the deep.
The river took it, said no word,
Just moved it gently, undeterred.
A thousand days of passing flow,
A patient hand that worked it slow.
And what was once a fractured thing,
Too wounded for the light to cling,
Became a stone so smooth, so round,
It fit the palm without a sound.
So do not fear the current’s pull,
The way it turns you, makes you full.
The river does not come to break —
It comes to show you what you’ll make.
Author’s Note
We resist the things that reshape us. We call them hardships, setbacks, losses. But sometimes the very force that wears us down is the same one polishing us into something we couldn’t have become on our own. The river doesn’t hurry. It just keeps moving. And so, eventually, do we.
