Paris Rooftops

Water drips off roofs onto cold stones,

morphs into rambling streams,

in search of thirsty riverbeds,

the route for wayward trout,

to pristine mountain lakes,

kissed by flashing thunderclouds,

rolling over endless horizons,

glistening in the moonlit, ill-clad oceans.

Flows by nature’s unseen hand,

softly embracing rusty barnacles,

caressing rocky shores in quiet tidal pools,

roaring through dykes and dams at its pleasure,

deftly declaring its crafty ways in the heavens and in the heart,

cycling through the living and the dead,

without maps, compasses, or road signs,

without ulterior motives.