source

sometimes,
water has to meander,
get lost underground,
disappear into thin air,
freeze in its tracks,
lash out with its pinpricks,
melt into a firm hearth,
explode into frenetic bubbles,
making their way
through an unseen door;

sometimes,
water has to hang heavy
in a thankless shroud,
work itself through the grind
of every ebb and flow,
rest in a faithful patience,
on the lonesome edge
of a single blade of time,
catapult through an emptiness,
with no map, no semblance of sound;

sometimes,
water has to look
all around for itself,
in everything not water,
even as it moves home,
over and over again,
only to return to
that home,
the source
it never left behind.