I’ve seen where the snow melts to rivers,
passing over the cusp of terrain.
Poured lonely and loved into vessels pressed
by eons, it froths and drives.
Pulling and pushing the raw,
Filling and turning the wanton mutation
of these bends and falls to impatience
and hurried decline.
Cold and clear – this water,
a gypsy surge
bathed with benevolent favor
and no time on its journey
Embraced at its finish
and swirled among the pools
of a quintillion bonded kindred souls.
gathering down the slope to the open plateau,
relegated to a collection.
Each one appears then fades
-as sounds of thunder dwindles to nothing-
leaving barely enough to fill a bowl.
Maybe the scratched
glass bowl the color of cinnamon,
that you use to mix tuna and mayonnaise
-but without sweet pickles
it is not a salad-
or the majestic porcelain one –
the best bowl to mix flour, water, and yeast.
Cover with a cloth
and let the dough rise -twice its size –
on the stove counter,
or the one
– it holds the apples and oranges,
and keeps from bruising them, but doesn’t work
for tangerines – so you store them
in the original packaging.
Then the bowls you don’t use –
you flip them over in the cabinet-
that way they don’t get dusty inside,
and you can put the spare words
away in a basket
for the day
or in a drawer
with recipe cards,
paper clips, spare buttons
and old keys.