Two Ripples

Imagine two drops
falling into a shallow pool.
Each makes a circle
that travels beyond the place
where it began.

A third gathers
at the end of a leaf.

Two songs have reached
the shape of playable sound.
Another is underway.
For now, these are the facts
the poem can stand on.

It cannot borrow an ear
from its own bright language.
It cannot call the words clear
because the circles look complete.

Still, there is movement
worth marking:
an intention has become
something a listener can return to.

Across the imagined water,
the rings meet.
Their edges make a pattern
neither drop could draw alone.

Perhaps two phrases
will answer each other that way.
Perhaps one will need
more room.

Start with the question
small enough to hear:
does this word arrive,
does that breath carry,
does the ending let go?

The third drop lengthens.

We expect it now,
prepare the next circle,
give it a place
in the picture.

But the leaf lifts slightly.
The drop stays.

A pause can change
what comes after it.
It can also be
a pause.

Under the leaf,
two widening rings
reach the rough edge of the pool,
where the stones
send back something different.