Where the Waters Are


We have almost forgotten, this nation of faucets,
The nature of water,
But it has not forgotten us.
Hissing below the surface
It streams and bubbles from depths
Leaping upward into light
Or oozing, trickling,
Dripping past our guards.
 
We have forgotten wells,
Those still pools
That can only be found by digging,
Where silence reigns,
And sound and light
Are swallowed,
Then given back doubled,
Echoing,
Showing us ourselves.
 
We have hidden our springs,
Sealed them up for profit,
Making a commerce of them.
But the waters cannot be forgotten.
Rich in silence
Drawn from the deeps
They pour forth in torrents
And fountains.
 
When I think of you
I think of waters—
A small pool with lilies adrift,
Catching the overflow of the world,
Or the drops that nestle beaded
Among the mosses.
A place of ferment
Where change is constant,
A place of stillness,
Of quiet generation,
Where I am reflected back at myself
And forced to listen—
Waters that go down to the depths,
Springing out of the bones of the earth
Renewed.

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