Floating

It’s called drifting

This floating, fluid thing that I do

You see, sometimes the currents just

Carry me

And I’m far away again;

That browning leaf on the water’s surface

The one eyes follow,

And on occasion

The rarest, it seems, of circumstances,

A fingertip grazes that surface

Spreading and convoluting particles

Droplets like memories,

Stars, too.

But I carry on, I float

I drift

And I wait for the waterfall at the end

Not realizing, in the time that it takes

To get there, to go,

I make my own currents, too.

Author's Note

It's been a while...please leave some kind of constructive criticism, if you can?