Droplets of water
along the sharp edge of a stone
carry tinctures of light
like traffic in December.
Sidle to the moss greenery
and plummet down an algal thread
to a pool as clear as air
over a mosaic of coloured stones.
Beads of water, they are taxis
that will carry you in iotas of brilliance
to the small lakes that have gleamed
behind your thoughts
where the beauties are nail-sized
and, though you’ve forgotten,
were once your fireworks.
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