Quiet water, so still water,
evanescent pond.
Play of light upon the surface,
promising beyond.

Share your breath with silent evening
as it glides the shining scene;
projected tree-perspectives
limn the corners of the screen.

So darkness twists the senses
and it robs the breath of air,
draws the waters all together
and embraces its despair.

There’s a lateness in the hour.
(Has it always been this way?
Have we always been so old?)

Take a stone, just any stone,
a little pebble marked,
hold it out across the surface
of all-penetrating dark.

You see your face reflected there,
(though lower down by miles)
in the distant patient surface
that you hope returns your smiles.

Drop the stone (just any stone)
and watch it close the gap,
like a scribbled-over paper,
simply landed in your lap.

(Was that a bell?
What is the time?)
Feel the air, rushing, rushing!

Now see it hit without a sound,
or nothing ears can grasp;
imagine, then, a pounding heart
or a pleased but furtive gasp.

But though the ears can’t hear a thing,
through shadow spy the sight
of a thousand circles swelling up
and shimmering with light.

Spreading from the center
(though only you can see)
the ripples catch their share of light
and spread across the sea.