As we skipped rocks at Walden Pond in steady rain,
you told me I just needed practice,
that my outstretched hand needed to move
in one single, continuous motion.
You selected each stone with care, inspecting
their flatness as if choosing flowers for a date,
only to send them off into the gloom, certain
of their own uncertainly paced descents.
I laughed at your advice, my voice skipping
rhythmically despite my un-thrown stones.
We were part of our history class field trip,
and you asked, “Why does the water
only reflect parts of the trees?” I shrugged,
letting the question settle into the pond and practiced
questioning what parts of you I could see:
lone like a stone, easing me away with each ring
of water that expanded to meet the trees;
you alone, like Thoreau, without me.