Stop

A pool of water, still as glass,
reflects glances from a car window,
shimmers in rear-view mirrors
and wistful stares at receding hedgerows. 

Absorbs the sunrise, debates the sunset,
is suspended above a bed of warm blankets,
is laid gently over a pie crust
or the barking frolic of a god.

The spell is broken, the mirror shattered,
when tomorrow becomes a blowing wind,
and time strikes the illusion dead
until the next reverie. 

But contentment sighs, purpose fulfilled,
as the pool is standing, waiting, still,
until the winds of time abate
for you to smell the roses.

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