Drop of water in a river.
Whose journey does it take?

It surely can’t flow back upstream.
It can’t stand still,
speed up
or slow.
Its pace is set
by nature
after all.
Confined to the river’s path,
it has no choice
but to round each bend.

Does it flow aimlessly then?
It bobs, dives, swerve’s to rise.
Can mill at the water’s edge;
take time to tickle lilies.
Float along the surface,
windswept in the breeze.

But the path it follows
was carved long before
the drop fell from the sky.
So could it ever have control,
or the right to question why?

Perhaps the drop of water’s happy
just to float along.

Perhaps it doesn’t worry whether
its path is right or wrong.