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The Pond

The pond on the acre of land,

Marsh and wet, deep and brackish,

Dabbled and gray, waving in motion,

Ripples,

And colored with shadows

In the valley of the rings of movement,

from the stone toss.

Breaks the tension.

Breaks the tranquil

with a plop.

Another plop.

And another.

The pond holds all the rocks

One by one,

toss and distraction

Traversing the water

on a downward journey

To the bottom

But not bottom

but a new bed

On an acre of land.