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CheckoutSomewhere up the street, out of sight, someone
has left the irrigation siphon open again.
Now, far down, I dip my hand in the stream
and press my palm flat against the concrete gutter.
The water tugs cool and dark on my forearm,
and through it I see my fingers flecked with light,
sand swept along and sifting through them.
A dry leaf bobs past, clinging so completely
to the water’s skin that its top is entirely dry; it rises
seamlessly around the solitary mountain
island that is my wrist, ascending.
I think of the irrigation manager somewhere
up the street, distracted – chatting with a neighbor,
having a smoke, or simply absorbed
in watching what he has released: the play of light
on ripples, roving deep in the bottomless dark
water at the mouth of the siphon – and I wonder
if it is better to think of the Creator as like him, or as more
like this swift-loosed flood, a selfless rush bubbling
up irretrievably to overflow.
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Tom Crotty
Thank-you for this verse that touches mind and heart. During this time of COVID-19 I love considering with the poet our frequent image of God as the distracted irrigation manager--please, Lord, turn off the valve! We've had enough! Then turning with the poet, even in these bleak seeming times, to an alternate image of God and grace not as a cosmic manager but as the water, wild and not to be contained, as a "swift-loosed flood, a selfless rush" overflowing in our midst if we only have eyes, with the poet, to see. Thank-you again.
Conrad Goodwin
This is a fantastic piece of water poetry! It brings to mind some of the imagery found in "Hind's Feet on High Places". Cheers from Puerto Octay.