A Puddle Of Me Poem by Brian Rihlmann

At the summit I stop,
lean forward
with hands resting
on my thighs,
breathing heavily.

I catch my breath
and spit
on the polished granite
at my feet,
then sit
with legs crossed,
hands folded in my lap.

My spit pools
into a little crevice,
reflecting the morning sun.

I sit and focus
on my breathing,
let the chattering voices
simmer down.

My eye is drawn
to that shiny puddle,
already evaporating,
fading at the edges.

I decide:
I will sit until it's gone.

The sun climbs higher,
sweat stings my eyes,
my feet and legs go numb,
as I glare at it now, waiting,
watching the edges creep
toward the glistening center
of that tiny puddle of me
and finally vanish.

I stand and stretch,
stamp the blood
back into my feet,
and smile,
having just witnessed
a great and obvious truth,
but feeling none the wiser.