Points And Lines

Instants in the quiet, small sharp stars,
  Pierce my spirit with a thrust whose speed
  Baffles even the grasp of time.
  Oh that I might reflect them
  As swiftly, as keenly as they shine.
  But I am a pool of waters, summer-still,
  And the stars are mirrored across me;
  Those stabbing points of the sky
  Turned to a thread of shaken silver,
  A long fine thread.