In Mexico, an old cenote marks
The death of dinosaurs, where rocks from space
Began an icy age. I visited the place
In younger days, beheld a pool opaque.
I dove beneath its tranquil, ancient skin,
A trespasser, pursuing pooling depths.
Although I held my breath and wished for fins,
The fathoms ensured its secrets were kept.
In you, I met my own cenote, wide
Across, but knew the sorry shallow banks
Of my heart. Without a doubt I would provide
You disappointment, sadness. It was a mistake:
I reached for sand, and found the well was deep.
This lake is endless, bountiful, replete.
By: Leighanne Ellis