For Once, Then, Something

Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs always wrong to the light, so never seeing deeper down in the well than where the water gives me back in a shining surface picture me myself in the summer heaven godlike looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs. Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb, I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture, through the picture, a something white, uncertain, something more of the depths—and then I lost it. Water came to rebuke the too clear water. One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple shook whatever it was lay there at bottom, Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness? Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.
Robert Frost

Photography A Pink Moon Camera