Prose

The Pond

The tale is yet to unfold

No stir beneath, not breeze above

The water’s glassy surface.

Morning secrets begin to rise as cold white whispers

In the silence of the breaking day,

Evaporating in the warm forgiveness of the golden sun.

She made herself smaller and smaller,

Until she fit into the palm of your hand.

Jaded, she would lie there,

Delicate

Shivering

Praying for you to become the home that would shield her

From all of the other sharp edges of the world.