I threw a rock into a pond
and watched the circles form around.
I may yet be forgotten by the wind in its perpetual unrest,
as I stand here,
small and quiet,
watching the waves,
touching the breeze.
The soft breeze that touched me
has opened the sky
If there is one thing left after we’re gone,
one small thing that matters,
even an echo in a canyon,
even a faint scent on a breeze,
then we haven’t lived in vain,