The smallest splash,
Ripples on a vast mirror,
Sunlight misdirection,
Resonance fading like a hundred-year-old pink rose,
No comet across the vast sky.
Perhaps if fish could read,
Learned it in schools,
These words would answer questions,
Qualify a fallen tree sound in a remote forest.
Still my pen must spill a drop of ink upon the page,
Even if it blows away unseen,
Like an airmail plane going down at sea,
A mystery of letters never received.
Does the water wash the ink from the page,
Or does the ink flee into dilution,
Giving up on being seen?
At least those atoms can join a hurricane.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 05-11-2025