A Single Stone

The water is impossibly still,
beautiful, artificial, a created thing,
art in space, so perfect you are afraid

to breath, afraid
you might ripple the water,
destroy the peace
so artfully created.

And so you sit still,
captivated. Captive.
Half afraid, half a child
eager to throw a stone
and watch the ripples
create a new art,
one of your own choosing,
less perfect,
more real.

About this poem

Too often we are afraid of change, when perhaps change is what we need most.

Tom