A shrinking agate of a puddle
In the sandy swerve of the ditch.
Most of us will never notice;
Water's too low to merit concern.
Maybe the joggers, or the kids
Coming home from the last day of school.
And I'd like to say that forests heal me
But in truth, it's water, even set
In the faded sandy chain
Of a drainage ditch, or
Concrete ponds the color of sky
Or coconut syrup fountains...
Even clear, if it's just for wading.
Dark rills chilly on hot concrete, too.
I see that agate down there,
Green rims holding the sky brown
Center, where the eternity of rise and sink
Is held in perfect float.
Water is life as they say. This is lovely Chrissa!
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