Ripples on the Surface

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.