Will, Of The Water

Will, Of The Water

Water waited in pipes behind the stone.

Moss panted in the shade

near a former splendid display of produce in the sun.

Lacinato once dominated its hold in the oak

and now the gold beets were above their sullen greens.

Spinach sipped its last,

and white chard wilted with the rainbow.

Radish had bristled with wet skin some time ago,

when bok choy had trumped them all,

over the grate in the grotto.

Daikon, carrots, and cilantro,

slumped above the broccoli and asparagus.

The brussels had had muscles, but not so much now.

Smeared in lost array, last in the bunch, curly parsley paused

before falling on shady moss below.

Will of the water took his hose and passed them by.

He lent water in the pipes to a fabulous bird's bath,

a byzantine basin, dry as some bones.

To the bottom went his hose,

and water gurgled forth with a slight soft glug.

It rose in time to meet beaks of thirsty birds,

more important thought Will,

than brown romaine.

Water was wonderful he spied to himself.

gjh 09