Ripples

16 January 2006, 11:07 AM

There’s a little rock-fort
at the foot of the Sycamore beside the reservoir
It faces south
southeast
as does she

I sit upon the stony ledge
watch the ripples coming
perpetually rolling toward the shore

They never turn back

though there’s nowhere left to go
Whither do those ripples wash away?
They disappear beyond the confines of the reservoir
They roll along far past the place at which
my eyes fail to see them any longer

Perhaps there is a place
beyond the murky boundaries of the reservoir
where water finally meets its mark
finds me unprepared for its
gracious brutality
in the moment when I cease failing to see
those waters of the reservoir have less to do with
simple lovely imagery
and more to do with what I’ve never sought to see
what I’ve struggled not to see
inside of me