SKIPPING
by Llyn Clague
a pebble across the surface of a pond
alternately glittering and black
as the sun shines unobstructed or blocked
by clouds, six, eight, nine times,
each ricochet a tiny Big Bang
creating a miniverse of ripples
steadily widening toward the far shores—
is like walking through office corridors
and passing colleagues with their glancing smiles.
The throw exhausted, the little flat stone,
glistening like an eye, makes one last strike
and sinks through water translucent gray
or dun dark, at the whim of clouds
moving with no logic I understand,
and on the floor of my being comes to rest
in the dark chocolate mud that nourishes
the grasses, reeds, plankton, and ultimately
the minnows, crabs, dolphins and flying fish
inhabiting my acqua-world.
I know that all the people I pass
have ponds of their own under sun and clouds,
some with crayfish, perch and bass
from childhoods near stream or lake,
a few with sharks with hides of gray leather
or schools of rages like frenzied piranhas,
others with exotic fish, inviting and enchanting,
in a world of Caribbean coral and white sand,
and still others I cannot fathom.
Copyright © 2011 by Llyn Clague.
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