By Anila Paul
Not far from home, near the temple’s quiet pond,
I traced soft circles with a careful fingertip—
sometimes slow, lingering on the surface,
sometimes quick, a light ripple spreading wide.
The scent of wet earth rose with the breeze,
carrying jasmine and damp stone.
A dragonfly hummed low, skimming glassy water,
while distant bells tolled deep and slow.
But then—
a branch, flung by the wind,
plunged without warning,
raked across the water’s face—
sending jagged ripples racing outward,
fracturing the stillness that had just begun to heal.
Slowly, the pond settles again—
soft rings fading at the edges,
though some circles stay longer,
twisting beneath the surface—
like memories I can’t quite shake.
What goes around, I learned,
doesn’t always come back the same.
Not all ripples fade at once—
some stay a little longer.
The thoughtful ones ripple gently,
leaving space instead of scars.
The sharp ones cut fast and loud,
echoing long after the calm returns.
The wise ones sink beneath the noise,
settling deep in hidden depths.
And the tactful ones?
They touch, not tear—
careful,
measured,
and real—
like moonlight that burn steady,
sharp and clear
upon the still water.