I am learning the art
of acquiescence. The leaf 
doesn’t fight the river but floats. 
The aspen along the riverbank 
grows where it will and then bows 
to the spruce as the trail narrows 
toward the peak. 
I am learning the art 
of acquiescence. The blossom 
did not resist the bee. 
Though we could not see their light, 
behind the storm clouds the stars 
shone as brightly as ever. 
The pencil submits to the sharpener. 
The thread follows the needle 
like a string
strung along by a kite.