The Celestial Ephemeral of the Puddle

An asphalt basin, after the light’s soft weep,
receives without weight the most honest blue.
A mirror stolen from heaven, with no claim to keep,
reflects lazy clouds and the modest hue.
For just one hour, or maybe a whole morning bright,
it is a fragment of infinity, here, on the way.

Then the air grows hungry, the light more daring,
and the trembling edge begins to yield.
Not a farewell, but a soul that’s snatching,
every molecule a piece to be repealed.
The reflected image rises invisible,
the ether calls it, its essence compressed.

No trace remains, nor a distant echo heard,
only the damp gray where the blue once stood.
But every rising drop, light and sovereign word,
carries a memory of the world misunderstood.
And in the vast blue, which has no end to find,
lives the ephemeral dream of all puddles combined.