Refraction

The evening light breaks on the windowsill, separating into thinner colors— each ray a ghost of the one before it.

The lake holds what the sky forgot, mirror and monument at once, reflecting only what it chooses to keep.

I watch a stone cut the surface, the ripples reaching outward like a voice that doesn't know where it's going.

Some things are meant to be temporary, the way light is, the way water is, the way we learn to let them go.