Paper Boat

This week,

death kept appearing

in ordinary conversations.

A diagnosis.

A grandfather.

A friend who heard about a future

they would not live to see.

A birthday marked on the calendar.

A second date marked beside it.

And everywhere,

people were making plans.

Talking about next month.

Graduation.

Next year.

Retirement.

Spring.

As though tomorrow

had already agreed to arrive.

The water keeps moving.

The rocks remain.

The stream does not stop because it knows there is a cliff ahead somewhere.

It simply continues.

Tomorrow,

someone will book a holiday.

Someone will plant flowers.

Someone will set a paper boat adrift.