As brackish water sputters from the ancient well pump, nut brown, then ocher, all the rusted line innards, heaving upwards, defying gravity, grows paler when blue stone opens the way, we celebrate the waters now, pouring clear, hard, clean, unconfined- And so are we this rosy morn, rising to greet the day, moving as we do, through winter’s sleep to stretch our calcified limbs, yawn into the sun, accept the wind on our tender faces, shake off the rust, and praise what keeps us alive, moving with the currents. Life force flowing, the deep drink gush from depths that replenish body and soul over and over and over again.
Early Morning Poems 