Coco

The Power of Water

 

I sit and I think about all the fantastic forms of water.

Ice that cools my drink

or a frozen pond where

figure skaters glide in poetic poses

in an elegant floating ballet.

I think about the artful craft of ice sculptors

using chainsaws and picks to carve a masterpiece.

How the icy piece must be witness and appreciated

before it melts away.

Water droplets that paint my window.

Drizzling down the panes of glass

collecting little pools and streams

that seem to bathe and nourish the plants below.

I think about the massive ocean waves that thrash

and clash in tsunamic terror mighty enough

to drown villages and sweep them out to sea.

I drink it all in…

all the ways in which water replenishes and dissipates.

Memories shared in waters fantastic forms ebb and flow the reminiscence of you and I.

 

 

My mind is flooded. –

 

A shower…

such a simple form in which water

sprinkles and spritzes off the body.

The warm mist of steam looming in the air.

The body a sculpture that is outlined and traced with intricacy

in each drop that splatters across the skin.           

I ponder…

what would have been your last thoughts?

As the water dances in a celebration meant to cleanse you.

Was the pressure soothing?

Were you sailing the seas of thought

planning for the next day?

Did you lay in fetal position

with the water just washing over you?

Was the water enough to keep your body warm till they found you?

Waterlogged with grief

I continue to drown my sorrows

as I take another sip of

water drowned rum. 

Stained-glass pieces

 

A smile clings to my face

like a vase that was once

wet clay molded into happiness

before it was broken pieces

on the floor

 

I am broken pieces

on the floor

even after I have been

swept up and discarded

dust particles of me remain

…

remain on the floor

yet strewn to the wind

carried into your breath

…

even if some ill fated

malintented guise tried

to glue my pieces

back together

I would still never be the same

 

there is beauty in

my broken pieces

beauty I never saw before

my fragmented soul

next to others like me

 

other broken pieces

that together form

the walls, halls and ceiling

of the Sistine Chapel

where the Pope prays for us all