Fluidity

If there was ever an answer,
it was submerged
beneath those murky lake waters,
deep down
where all sight just becomes bands of inky color:
swaths of orange-brown,
blue, black,
midnight purple.

Above the wave line,
beyond the high water mark,
there are only glimpses,
apparitions of past moments.
A fractured smile,
the ghost of lilacs and laughter,
cicadas like a stage whisper.
The condensation of body heat and impulse.

On the overgrown path
beyond the gently-worn shores,
perhaps there is the lingering scent
of salt tears,
the translucent reflection
of a woman or a girl
broken by ripples
like an image on a pond.

If ever there was an answer,
it is simply that everything
is water;
tears and moments and whispers,
all fluid,
all movement
influenced by the moon.