A still pond. Canopies of maple, oak, white birch and pine reflect without blemish across it. Then the first drop falls. Ripples radiate out. More drops; more ripples, overlapping each other. The perfect reflection becomes a wavering array of verdant images twisted on an ever-trembling membrane. Soon, a blurry, raincloud gray is all the pond reflects. But before long, the rain slows. The last drops fall. The final ripple passes. Once more, a still pond.
morning coffee
forgotton in a flurry
of household errands
croaking frogs this evening
when the work is done at last
for the Tanka Poets on Site Facebook Group’s 5/18/19 Jerry muse (peace)
UPDATE: for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Peace (posted by Susan)
Frank J. Tassone 
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