snapshot: central park lake
The stillness of a lake at dawn enters you:
the mist, the unstirred waters, the glide
of one marsh bird across a mirroring sheen.
You stand at the edge of the bank, a foot
about to touch a surface you believe
will break forever because of what you do.
You forget how often ripples have awoken,
will tear and refold time and time again. Nothing
you do will make the waters ring endlessly
nor still them forever. Instead, look at yourself,
it is you who are broken, dirty and need to be wet.
23 January 2003 10:58 hours