A poem is like ripples in a pond,
As the muted sound.

Like the reflection of the sun on an aluminum foil,
As the muddy soil.

Like a rain drop,
Dry as the desert crop.

Like the myriad colors in a shaft of light,
As the imagination takes flight.

Motionless like the shifting sand,
As a marauding band.

Like the glimpse of a familiar face in a milling crowd,
As the flash of lightning in a foreboding cloud.

It should grab you like a snare
As a shooting flare.