I remember a day,
sun-scorched and breathless,
somewhere in the middle of summer
which summer it was, I can no longer say.
But the moment sits clean in my mind.

I had wandered into the mountains,
into a fold of stone and shade,
and there I found it
a quiet pool, fed by a waterfall,
that thundering giant that still grasped the moment gently,
its voice deep and eternal,
like breath drawn from the belly of the earth.

I often wondered
if this was how God spoke.

It was a place of stillness,
where questions could be asked
without the burden of reply
or the worry of judgment.

I was not the first to stand there,
nor would I be the last.

Birds skimmed the air like thoughts,
bees murmured over wildflowers,
and the scent—oh, the scent
was one I knew
but now find indescribable.

Creatures great and small kept their distance,
yet shared the silence with me.

I dipped my hand into the quiet pool
and picked up a water-smoothed stone,
still cool in my palm,
and held it tightly for a minute,
unafraid it would break
under the clutch of my tightening grip.

Then I closed my eyes and thought,
finding a place neither inside nor out
not in words,
but in that interior language
only silence understands.

For that moment, I disappeared
transported.

Only me and the stone,
echoing the tranquility
that lived in the air and light.

I lingered in my mind
and found my way back to reality.

With slow breath,
I opened my eyes
and cast the stone into the pool,
casting all that was
and had been there before me.

Ripples broke across the mirrored sky.
I searched the wavering reflection for something great
truth maybe, or just a shape I recognized.

I was young then.
Not yet old,
but aware that time had passed.

The long days taught me
that time doesn’t rush.
It moves like water,
swallowing the stone without judgment.

I left that quiet place
with answers to questions
I had not thought to ask.

Many years passed.
The path I walked
was filled with laughter
and with sorrow
with questions.

I returned, older, though not old,
to that same pool,
seeking again
what cannot be named.

And as before,
I threw a stone,
and watched the ripples spread.

“This,” I told myself,
“is life.”

The water keeps moving,
soft and steady
but time…
time just stands there, doesn’t it?
Watching, not lifting a finger.
Not even having fingers, maybe.

I’m standing here now,
somewhere between
all I remember
and what has been,
and whatever comes after.

And I look down
and there I am, looking up.

It’s strange, really
like we don’t quite believe in each other anymore.
Or maybe we never did.

And still I ask
quietly, maybe foolishly
what does any of this mean?
Why am I still looking for something
that probably doesn’t want to be found?

I stare into the stillness,
dragging up whatever I can from below.
Truth, maybe?
Or something shaped like it.

The stones down there
smooth, silent,
left by my hands,
and maybe by others too.

Isn’t that how it goes?
We leave our joys behind like artifacts,
and our choices settle like silt,
while time flows like water
slow and steady.

But is this what it costs
this need to see too much,
feel too deep?

Do we trade connection for introspection?
Is that all I’ve become?
Just a voice bouncing off the water,
off the trees,
off the empty air?

Then I ask myself again
what even is prayer?
Is it really just talking to yourself
and hoping someone else is listening?

Is it a mirror too?
Like looking at the reflection looking back at you.
Like a story that starts out foggy,
but if you keep reading,
you begin to see a face,
a presence
and it’s not quite yours,
but it knows you.

Maybe that’s what poetry is too
a place between the real and the maybe.
Not about what’s true or false,
but what flickers in-between.

And when it’s honest
really honest
maybe poetry is religion without the costume,
and maybe religion, at its best,
is poetry without the ego.

Right here, in this quiet,
they meet in a way
that doesn’t trick you,
and doesn’t try to impress.

They just… exist.
And I guess I do too.

Still here.
Still wondering.
Still being.
Throwing smooth stones
into quiet pools of life.