I’m told that wells within some few
Of us contain the purest beverage, powers,
Potent afterthoughts of light in consequential showers;
Spirit butterflies, random valleys’ blessings’ dews.
There’s no subtlety in this, but some
Confusion insofar as water has no colour,
No perfume but the inverse of its catalyst, the sure
And lasting remedy that comes
To all who ask, and cannot be ignored.
And when the letters of the common drink
Address the eyes, the spelling links
The abstract ciphers to the concrete word for evermore:
I speak of shame and effects that stem from reason;
Not all possess this gift, but save for the sun
there are no changing seasons.