Three Percent: a Riverain Blessing
Three percent is all they say
The sweet water of a water planet
The cool drink, the soft rain
Rare as blood, rare as luck, rare
To our wet hands, shining.
From the far sky, adrift in curds and blankets
Whips and knots, anvils towering thunder hammers
Rain the hand of kindness down
To our fields, our mouths, the dancing springs
And cold rivers, snaking the glens of Earth to the sky again.
Do we take you for granted, o three percent?
Do we curse you for flooding, pop our grumbrellas
On a wet walk to the office?
Not when puddles leap for joy and silver makes the sky
A treasury. I tip my face to you, and appearances be damned
This gift is too precious: oceans’ breath, sky’s milk
Rivers’ song falling drop by drop
To my waiting skin.