Thin water (call it that) but it is everywhere,
Insistently covering, coating everything—
Pebbles, grass, swaths of concrete, tracks of tar, the trees—
Soaking the air invisibly, dripping, puddling,
Wet, wet, wet. Shivers run down my back. I pull my
Skin close to the bones. A big breath—and out I go
To haul the garbage bag out to the distant curb
Navigating petty lakes across the ocean
Of thin water; then back again to fetch that blue
Recycling Bin full of its humid cargo of
Spent bottles, cans, and plastics sacked to save the world.
There are these times when for a week of Sundays, seems,
The sun must hide behind a massive grey or fog
So thick thin water turns quite visible and white, and
The faint light only hints at what I cannot see:
Houses across the street, the lake between, the docks
Down there where in some distant future yachty things
Will moor and white swans will seem to move without the
Locomotion of webbed feet thanks to thick water
That carries them darkly, but glitters as it
Reflects the light that, in some future, shall be back.
Will it dry out? Or will fake January last?
I Pray not. Sick of thin water and obscuring
Fog, sick of fake news and fake months that should be cold
Instead—and brilliant—the Sun in charge again!