There are places in the river
where foam gathers
in the clefts of rocks or behind debris;
hiding.
Unsightly blobs
slowly rotating with
the rush & the power;
water mixing with air.
Bits of itself
the river would rather
leave far behind
on its determined course
to its own end.
But, a river does not end
in fact,
just releases itself
into something bigger;
a greater whole,
but the white river foam,
like fat on the surface of the water,
like those memories we’d rather forget,
disturbing the tranquil beauty
of the journey,
slowly rotates
in the river’s relentless mind