How long have I looked into this pool,
Watching that image for change
Hoping it would grow a bit brighter,
A bit more worthy?
How long has my hand been stayed
Just above the water
Wanting, desperately, to fix the faults
Within the image floating there?
How long?
Isn’t it time to let the ugly be
To look away from the wrongs that seem so glaring
To live, rather than to be frozen with regret
To move away from the pool into the day?
I’ll never fix that face
Nor find perfection there.
I’ll never even modify the expression on that face
By looking in the water.
The trap is not the beauty or the lack thereof
But the fixation on the image
And the fantasy that perfection
Is the necessary first step toward acceptance.
But … what is that?
A movement other than my own within the pool
A hand upon my shoulder
A face besides my own looks up at me.
The look within those eyes
As they gaze on my reflection
Seem filled with tears of love.
They drop into the pool and blur the vision there.
The spell is broken.
Narcissus turns and is wrapped in an embrace so full
That all preoccupation is lost in deepest consolation.
Quiet Hope 