Refracted

For one of ours, just gone to somewhere quiet, where the light still filters down, and the ripples above her stay gentle.

From down there, the trees on the shore are not trees, they are deformed reflections wavering through a ceiling of water, held briefly inside a pink dusk sky reminding us of who we once were. You cannot see the place itself. You can only feel that it is inhabited, that something is patiently tending something, that a quiet heartbeat is going on through the water pressure around you.

Made from the inside of the stillness of someone who was once shown how to look at a lake, and never unlearned it.

For wound-bearers who still carry the places they were first taught to see.