A small, still pond
Stares longingly at the babbling brook
Wishing to be part of their conversation.
Hearing the stories, like ripples, pass by
But never responding,
Though there are things to tell.
She wants to try
To be involved in the flow
And be free to frolic.
Yet if she joins the rushing water
There will be rocks.
She’s terrified
Of saying the wrong thing
And then being forced back out
To be a lonely puddle
Lying on the bank.
So she will stay
And sit on the side lines
Where it is safe.
Who knew that safety
Can hurt so bad?