A stone drops into a pond, punches a hole in it. Water balls up, born, leaps up and out, alive in drops that sing, rise, separate from the rest. No longer at rest, they spin, suspended, frozen, apart. No longer a part of the whole, they wonder, question, desire. They stall.

They begin to fall.

In the course of time they seek that from which they rose. They return to the pond, and flatten against its surface, dissolving again in their source.

We watch, and we see: this was their birth, their death.

Apart, alone,

the same,

they are us.

This is our birth. Our death.



14 thoughts on “Longing

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