the enso

"The Depths" by marlowe

the poem

I imagine you sit
at the bottom of the pond,
resurfacing like a ghost,
like an old memory,
only after
some provocation, your mouth
gaping in disbelief
at your fortune, this
disturbance
in your muddy microcosm
that prompts
exploration,
requires further inquiry
that perhaps sparks
an instinct you
didn’t know you had,
the lily pad
becoming
your marker, your trigger
next time someone
walks too close
or dares to perch by the bank,
looking for something you
cannot give.