your passing life

the black pool
of soft water,
unable to edge out
from it's circle
of trees and brush,
dull moss, is a mirror
of the sky. absorbing
each cloud, each line
of sunlight
that finds its way
through the high
pines. how many times
have you circled,
when running,
and  marveled
at it's darkness,
the cold ebony eye
of what you precieve
it to know about you
and your passing life.