At the edge of the docks, look to the worlds at an angle, seeing at first glance and nothing more to add in thought of what would see?
Glass; casing everything safe, from the harsh warps: of the time and weather. Smooth to the touch but damps the tips with no other reason that it can. As the fall leaves of cherry, golden, auburn, with a mints here and there of an everlasting linger spring.
Floating; at a standstill, colliding and brushing one another, in peace, as they carry on the wet glass. As soon, far in the distance of one’s eyes, clawing ways through the shadows, scaring with cracks: into breaking the liquid glass floor, but nowhere close to it.
Darken the cheerful colors of the vegetation, into a shallow whip of them, barring that once soul gone from what danced before on the glass of water before the cracks formed, from their passed season fathers and mothers, of pine trees, unwilling to let go, but sadly blacken soon as winter comes, in time it will.
So soon, whirl of another world comes, breaking through the glass, casting mini whitecaps over the foliage.
With eyes so wide as the ink air of night filled with stars, swims by, a sliver tint carved catfish or dull gray dyed carp, breaths in time as the whitecaps go around it, stalling the cracks, a parting the fallen.
From another world, this would never happen, but it does, for there is space that is needed to be filled and to be left alone, the choices of that, come not from force or as is, it becomes as with both.
Relying only on those who will do just that, leaving that three worlds becomes that as one, for again, space filled or not, will come or not.
In the time that passes, it will for soon happen and be so.
Just as the sea dwell goes through the glass with waves of peace, leaves of anew, cracks of the past, come together, making one world all know, just keeping looking and it will be seen.
Three Worlds by Maurits Cornelis “M.C.†Escher
Made in the year; 1955
Location when painted; varies areas of Netherlands
