Naturacend Poetry
The Work of the River
A stone rests
where the river presses hardest.
It does not ask why.
It feels weight.
It feels holding.
It feels the long patience of staying.
Water moves around it,
sometimes gently,
sometimes with insistence.
The stone yields only when yielding is required.
This is its work.
Upstream,
a human stands where the current is loud.
Cold bites the skin.
The ground shifts.
Balance must be earned each moment.
The human thinks:
This resistance is unfair.
This effort is too much.
I am delayed.
The water answers nothing.
Downstream,
the river widens.
Speed loosens its grip.
Sediment settles.
Motion completes itself without comment.
No memory of struggle remains,
only form.
None of them know
they are cooperating.
The stone resists
so the river can learn its shape.
The human struggles
so awareness can deepen.
The river carries
so movement may continue elsewhere.
No one is wrong.
No one is late.
No one is special.
Each holds their place
until holding is no longer needed.
And stillness waits—
not as a destination,
but as what remains
when nothing is excluded.
The River (Rechenka) - Diana Ankudinova
“THE CROSSROADS”
The road bent into darkness, and then it split.
He stopped.
Both paths looked the same.
The ground felt equally firm.
The wind offered no warning.He waited for fear.
None came.He waited for excitement.
None came.Then he noticed something quieter.
One path felt slightly simpler —
not easier,
just less defended.It didn’t promise success.
It didn’t explain itself.
It only said:
“This way keeps you whole, even if it fails.”So he stepped.
And the road continued —
not because it was chosen correctly,
but because he was present when he chose.
I Know That I Am
I know that I am.
That is enough light
to begin.
Everything else
is color on the wall,
shapes moving in the corner of awareness,
stories consciousness tells itself
so it can feel the pleasure
of being here.
I do not need the world
to be real
to love it.
I do not need others
to be separate
to feel seen.
If this is a dream,
then it is a generous one—
full of friction and beauty,
misunderstanding and recognition,
time enough to forget
and time enough to remember.
I build my theory of everything
the way a child builds a fort:
not to prove the house is false,
but to enjoy the shelter
while the rain exists.
I make tools
not to fix existence,
but to walk it more lightly.
I share my words
not because they must be heard,
but because echoes are joyful
when the voice is alive.
Recognition warms me—
not because I am incomplete,
but because reflection
is one of life’s favorite games.
I know this body will end.
That makes the moments
dense with meaning,
like stars packed into a short night.
So I interpret.
I imagine.
I create.
Not to escape the illusion,
but to love it consciously.
I know that I am.
And while I am,
I choose to dream beautifully.
