a pond’s surface

*for brownin’*

it would not be
out of the ordinary
to meditate on what your stare means
when you are pleased
past all troubles
that tower and tangle like so many trees
and to see your face
still as a back country pond
your eyes
bold maple leaves
drifting on the surface
the only ripples
being when you exhibit that beam of light
that makes silence sweeter.

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