Rivers mend (and people, too)
Some people never mend,
unlike the River, slowly
yet far more than “it is enough,”
But not very much.
Your silence doesn’t hurt me when you hurt me,
just yourself.
Don’t hurt my person.
On your borderline, or mine,
She’s not evil, doing evil things
when you threaten departure,
by your silence.
So, the river shimmers
So, the river flows,
So, the river moves, and moves things around too,
while my roses grow
waiting for you to bud, too, my bud.
Under the roses, I love my silence.
When everything is silent,
I grow, ready for my bud.
©Philippe du Col, 2025