— after Mark Doty
Why love it, the clear water,
while it lies, almost still,
briefly a kind of shining on the ground,
silver-surfaced mirror sinking,
after a moment, into soil?
Last night, a flimsy fog
settled its wettishness,
countless prickly droplets
drifting across the perked heads of lettuce,
useless, or almost useless
—mere misting, drip by drip,
But now, the gift of water
among the plants, pure abundance
among the waiting beds of greens,
quenching rescue . . .
And we act
as if life were a grace that will last.
Think of it, earth’s clean water.
How long will it flow?