Water falls over the cliffs, bashing itself against the granite again and again, dropping down into plunge pools dozens of feet below. It does not die.
Water drops from the highest sky, yet doesn’t shatter.
Not imprisoned in a skeletal shape, water sculpts the bones.
Water assumes no form, and so it’s every form. Unborn, it dies not.
Ice and cloud, storm and dewdrop, water shifts in aspect, yet always remains water.
Unresisting, water never breaks. Crashing, it yields. Stopped in its tracks, water grinds mountain to dust.
Held by any mold which seeks to possess it, water yields to all embraces, so showing the impermanence of all holding. Water finds a way through, and flows on, and on.
Seeking a single level, water drops down to join the remainder of itself, only to begin the cycle from ocean to vapor to rain, from the aloneness of a dewdrop to return to its ocean once again.
Not created. Not destroyed. Always moving, eluding name and place, water finds its home.