When you see a photograph of a drop
of water hitting a still pond, you realize
that it is nothing at all like what you see.
The photo freezes time, and that is why
we are so taken, for we want nothing more
than to slow or stop that unerring arrow
for we know all too well where its target
sits and we will never see its point
for the intended point is infinitely far
and we are but a small interstitial step
on its path, and so we want to freeze
the arrow’s flight , to grasp it, to turn
it around if possible, certain we can
wish it, certain that the archer knew
we would, certain in the end we will fail.