far over a long stretch of dense wood
the earth casts downward to reveal a basin of still water
shaded slightly by the swaying leaves
and a crouched figure

into her reflection gaze, those near-crying eyes
wavering slightly as little mists catch evening light
odd shimmering shapes mists make:
like a lock of golden hair
and a tear, falling slowly downward
which just rests placidly on the water's surface
as to not disturb its holy silence

no matter how many tears she cried
no tear could ripple that still pool of glassy water
from which her reflection looked-- almost mockingly
if something can mock wholly unintentionally

some things have to stay unaffected
even if it's uncomfortable for a time.