The reeds give way. The footing turns to silt;
Cold takes the calves, the knee, the thighs.
The bank recedes; the center remains still.
A form goes under, circles multiply.
The surface splits, reforms. A clean design
of rings moves outward, thins, and disappears.
Above, the scattered light aligns—
no skew remains; no tremor perseveres.
A woman cleaves the sheen, a lucid cut;
the surface yields, then closes where it split.
Around her, freshened currents rut
what leaves her skin returns, unwrit.
If meaning asks for argument:
The surface holds. The rest is spent.