A quiet pool will hold your face,
A liquid portrait, soft and near,
It knows your form, your time, your space,
But cannot know the thoughts you bear,
A lovely ghost, but not the soul.
When evening comes, the form extends,
A stretch of charcoal upon the sand,
It follows where your journey trends,
And lingers until the day is gone,
An echo bound to light and shift.
We often pause to trace the lines,
The easy copy, clear and bright,
Or walk within the soft designs,
The comforting shape held by the night,
And feel we’ve captured all there is.
The Truth itself is just beyond
The mirrored surface, dark or bright,
A steady place where you respond,
A deeper presence, out of sight,
The gentle heart of what remains.
This is my journey,
— Nate Long “Owl”