water song

If it were not called—

Water—

Would be

The edges of the knife that carved away the side of a stone

Hung from the clouds

Gathering storms

Like admirers;

The shiv held in the

Fist of the goddess

As she slices through

the stone rising;

The scalpel

Drawing the white lines that curve around and soften the pebbles,

where fish trails will appear and rush;

The disparate masses, pristine in protest, crawling slowly away from the poles, creating a fleet of frozen foundations,

Melting to a rage as they suffer;

If it were not called

Water—

It would be the

mystery conjured

Out of our bodies by the siren song of sun

Or sadness.

One must learn

Never tell the sky not to cry

Or the stop the man from sweating in the fields—these

Are just two types of rain.

One must learn

never call down the cold hearts of the Antarctic armada

Or ask the enemy to warm her hands in yours—these

Are just two types of glacier.

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