Refraction

Light bends through the glass, a prism of ordinary afternoon— the world splits into its secrets.

I watch a shadow lengthen where the windowsill meets water, how every angle holds a world we never knew was there.

The ripple doesn't erase what lay beneath; it only folds it inward, multiplies it, makes permanence of passing.

In the curve of a single drop I see time folding back on itself, each moment a refracted promise: that to be broken is to be more whole.