by Georgia Bartlett-McNeil
If the water reflects the sky—
one giant, fluid mirror,
ever effervescent and abstract in its dancing steps—
I wonder if the reason we can never see the bottom
is because it truly reflects everything.
They say the sea is blue because the sky is blue,
and when the sky is gray, the water is steel,
and when the sun is red, the waves are blood like nebulae,
forever shifting in their hue,
in their rhythm,
a seething spectral mass hiding who knows how many secrets.
But on a clear day, it holds nothing hostage.
It lays all bare for us to see.
You cannot stop the light glistening off the waves,
like sparks flying from the blunt end of a blacksmith's hammer,
and I wonder if those sparks are the stars.
The stars that are suns millions of miles away,
visible only for a split second;
the kind of moment that's only meant to stay a memory.
Who know how long that light took to get here?
How many wormholes and atmospheres did it bypass to get here?
How long did it have to wait before it lived,
and died, in this moment?
And we were the last ones to witness it breathing.
Maybe the reason why the bottoms of the oceans are so black
is because the right star hasn't sent its light yet.
Or maybe we're just waiting for it to reach us.
Or maybe we're just too blind to see it.
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