We ripple our thoughts on purpose,
watching them move up and down
coming together for but a moment
then watch as they slip away once more.
We wonder where they move to,
what lies in their depths we can no longer see,
feeling them brush by, leaving just a hint
of their former selves
then dissipating into nothing.
I dream in colors some days
as the rain falls beyond the glass
slippery pearls dripping down one by one
and I lie and watch the slow motion of the fan
circulating on its journey
moving the invisible air around
cooling my body with its quiet touch.
So many things to do,
a million words slipping here and there,
sometimes falling onto stone
permanent marker time cannot erase,
for I leave them behind
like stepping-stones for those to come
to wonder whose hand it was
that etched the primitive images
and what did they mean
back in the day
before their time began.
