making a mandala

fingers strut
across water,
forcing patterns
over ancient patterns
that never stay,
that only move
and grow wings,
stretched over
the web of water,
as these flowers
and leaves
and pollen,
take in a new breath
with every ripple,
telling me
to grow quiet,
to sink deeper,
to reach that still point
where even a drop
of silence
embalms the water
with its fragrance -
the essence
of all patterns,
touched,
moved,
forged,
and forgotten.