Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Sometimes a question that sounds like a joke turns out to be anything but funny.

This poem begins with two familiar images: a stone skipping across water and a chicken crossing the road. Both are moving toward somewhere, but the more interesting question isn’t whether they make it. It’s why they started moving in the first place.

We often hear that it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey. And there’s truth in that. The experiences, mistakes, discoveries, and unexpected turns along the way can shape us just as much as whatever waits at the end. But I’ve always found myself wondering: what if we can’t fully understand the value of that journey until we know where it leads?

What were we hoping to find? What did we imagine would change? And what happens when the other side doesn’t look the way we expected?

I don’t think this poem argues that the journey is meaningless. Rather, it questions whether meaning is something we can recognize while we’re still moving toward it. Sometimes we have to arrive before we can look back and understand what all that movement was for.

Maybe hope is the willingness to keep skipping across the water, even when we don’t know whether we’ll reach the other bank.

And maybe the answer to why we crossed is something we can only discover after we’ve made it.

Until then, the question remains: what were we hoping to find on the other side?

— Rowan Evans

The Meaning of the Other Side
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I’m the ripple in the water
caused by the skippin’ stone
skippin’ slow, before slippin’ below—
I was just trying to reach the other side,
like the chicken crossed the road—
the real questions; why?
Why was I trying to reach other side,
like why did the chicken cross the road?

It’s not a joke, it’s a question about hope—

what was I hoping would change?
What was the chicken hoping to gain?​
What would the other side bring?​
What would reaching the other side mean?

It’s not the destination—
it’s the journey, they say.
But what if the journey means nothing,
unless the destination means something?
What if you can’t know the journey’s worth
until it’s done—
so these questions remain number one;

why’s the stone skippin’ cross the river,
what’d the chicken cross the road for?

It’s not that the journey doesn’t matter,
it just doesn’t matter until after—

Journey into the Hexverse

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]