Thank you, poet and dear friend Jack Crimmins, for going out to bring me water that winter night I was doing a reading at the Quicksilver Gallery (where they only served wine). It was dark and raining and yet the only water to drink might have traveled the seas all the way from the Sitka Glacier to China and then back.
That night you went down the street
to bring back water – sweet
smell of rain
on your shirt, the good water
from who-knows-where
in its killer-plastic bottle. Wind
through the open door — leaving
returning. Now stars,
too early for the old moon.
There is a wilderness of pure joy
beneath all sorrow.
It’s where things begin.
Originally published by On the Commons (2013)
As always. Words, spot on.