if i could see a drop of rain from the inside i would still never understand water even in my bed at night my body somehow leaks moisture and i am left thirsty, forced to trek from my cocoon for another drink in a glass of water a pencil becomes a bended ray of light pointing at impossible angles and when removed is again straight the glass no less changed than before water is not the air i breathe yet it is a part of each breath water shapes the world the morning dew from which bees drink, the slow drip that smooths canyon walls and hollows mountains, the summer waterfalls over desert cliffs the deep springs lapped from the lips of deer water is more necessary to life than air we are born in water, and that is where we will return. we are not dust turning to dust, nor ash to ash, but we are water turning to water.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting- over and over
announcing your place
in the family of things.