Without hesitancy, a finger reaches down toward the liquid blue
its nail glances across the surface
an oval is born.
The oval grows, gaining speed
while other ovals follow in its wake.
The finger lifts up
in awe of its creation
amazed as the ovals expand and explore the liquid blue.
The silent water ripples for the first time,
and yet the ovals begin to fade
some flowing in haphazard directions
others colliding and dying
each ending without a trace.
Unless that finger chooses to tap the surface again
the ovals will no longer arise pure and perfect in form.
The ovals appear to have never existed
except the memory of their maker
remembers their beauty.