Droplets
along the sharp edge of a stone
like a chain of headlights
in December traffic,
sidling onto moss greenery,
streaming down an algal thread
to a pool of pellucid water
over a mosaic of coloured stones.
Beads of water, taxis,
carrying you in iotas
to pools, your thoughts
in subterranean caverns
where the beauties are pin-sized
and, though forgotten,
were once your fireworks.
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