Daily, the pond becomes shallower;
she sees her thoughts circling, like shadow
fish between swamp grasses, sending
tiny bubbles percolating to the surface.
Her mind tries to grasp the bubbles
but they burst apart, splattering mud
across the remaining layers of her vision.
Sometimes she sniffs the air, as though
waiting for rain to spill a rush of clarity
into this puddle where she languishes.
Instead, the mud thickens, hardens; soon
it will absorb the final dregs
of her lucidity. But by then,
she will not notice.