her small hands sensed the silent close beyond.
Before the reign of grasshoppers in June,
her fingers dimpled skilfully the pond,
which closed her smooth, taut skin in that frail bond
of mirrored silence. Time her touch has somewhere bent --
the fragile surface gestures back, responds.
At most -- as she withdraws, so he descends --
they spill diverging waves of laughter: tense,
still bound. Of course, the ripples wrinkle up
toward death. Darkness pools, reflection rends --
she wakes his last slight look, she's nearly shut.
When opened, clouds breathe snow unknowingly,
her pen in hand, his closed eternity.