R. L. Cook
Sometimes a Word
Into the mirror of a pool,
Static in Autumn, deep and black,
A stone falls, cracks the glass and sinks
To a forgotten resting-place:
The mirror forms again; the ripples die.
And music often, like a flower in space,
Fading into an empty room,
Leaves unseen shadows everywhere
Before the deaf walls crush the bloom,
Assert their permanence, absorb the sound.
Sometimes a word, a look, a sign,
Falling upon the guarded mind,
Echoes like music or a stone,
Ruffling the troubled consciousness
And twisting the frail tendrils of the heart.
Page(s) 160
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