I’ve been the rusty bucket
filled with stones and broken shells.
At best, fine grey sand
homesick for a windy beach.
These days the sky knows
saturation is the key to my cure.
Caught in a deluge, cool drops drip
through my once waterproof coat.
Drenched and limping we walk
down the bank, myself and my dog.
She is further ahead, in every sense,
each moment a game for her to win.
That’s when we see him, he is river,
he whispers Be water, Be water.
Flowing with fury, a tide of fists.
Shapeshifting translation of life.
Even in summer, I’m a trickle
a broken hose, spilling without direction
I wade through dampness.
head for the river, he reminds to flow.