The self-proclaimed matriarch deigned to hold sway

though the mothers before her had not yet passed away.

A whitewater rapid propelled toward the sea,

A true force of nature, one might (quietly) say.

The matriarch’s offspring like eddies were spun.

In fast-swirling waters to slick boulders they clung.

Two generations deeper the river was carved.

“A true tour de force!” might have (loudly) been sung.

The matriarch lived a great-grandchild to see.

Still white-capped, less rapid, still bound for the sea.

A force to be reckoned with up to her last breath,

then the matriarch’s mantle was passed down to me.

My waters run smoother, though the currents run strong,

and the offspring of offspring with my blessings flow on.

As to my own reckoning, may I kindly be seen

as a force (mostly) for good, when the mantle moves on.

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