The stone has a short life
bouncing on water
then gone
I would have it go leaping
flat slate
slapping the lake
fifty times
to the other shore
But it can't be
I barely get eight
My son's sinks at four
The stones jar pastels of
fading light and a
sliver of moon
It is bits of ourselves
we are skimming and
this soft evening
What we were at this moment
is echoed and gone--
The water is glass
--Alan B., Adult.