Saturday, April 21, 2012

The River Grace

Dehydrated, distressed,
I scratched at square inches
Of dry, cracked ground,
Lodging ungodly grains
Under my dead fingernails.

Help gushed out of a Rock—
Overflowing, its nature;
Grace, its sweet flavor.
The enemy had me convinced
It was full of lead and mercury.

Then, truth turned my head around
To learn of The River Grace.
I awoke, waded in its tributaries,
And cupped it up in handfuls
To my once cotton mouth.

Now alive, I want to build a life
Around building better reservoirs—
Be they canals to criminals,
Pipelines to the poor,
Or tankers to the down-trodden.

As an eyewitnesses to this excess
May I not be content to collect;
Give me gifts in hydraulics—
To daily drink from this River Grace,
Then to manage the overflow.

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