Relationship Advice

He
flows.  She
flows. They
— you know, they
flow.  

Not that
ripples
from drowned rocks
don’t shock
their surfaces,
or that
their faces
don’t show it.  
Not that, no. But
they flow, go
forward, those
slow them
only a little.

When
what is downstream’s
the driver, the dream
they work toward,
they flow — taking
the breaks of current
and banks in stride,
watching the river go
from narrow-swift to
slow-wide.

Nights
under silver-lit moonshine,
days baking bright and dry,
some days the river
nearly gone from view —
no matter, they flow,
they go, he flows
with her and she with him
and if you see them, 
follow as long as you can —
that how it’s done,
that’s how slow and present
cleans and carves through
trouble and pain —

flows
along, coupled, joined
in progress, aimed
with no effort at the end
where the flow
joins the ocean
and disappears into
what encircles all.