Ignoring the ripples doesn’t work,
Beautiful though they may be
In the early light of an autumn dawn.
The ripples return.
Their warmth long gone,
Drained of blood.
Injected with colors of autumn’s dawn,
They look full, alive with mysterious meaning.
But cold these ripples remain
In their return to me.
Tilting beneath my feet.
I shutter and stare, a moment only—
I cannot weave these cold things
Into a useful thing, resembling you.