Where the Waters Are

We have almost forgotten, this nation of faucets,
 The nature of water, 
 But it has not forgotten us.
 Hissing below the surface
 It streams and bubbles from depths
 Leaping upward into light
 Or oozing, trickling,
 Dripping past our guards.
  
 We have forgotten wells,
 Those still pools
 That can only be found by digging,
 Where silence reigns,
 And sound and light
 Are swallowed,
 Then given back doubled,
 Echoing,
 Showing us ourselves.
  
 We have hidden our springs,
 Sealed them up for profit,
 Making a commerce of them.
 But the waters cannot be forgotten. 
 Rich in silence
 Drawn from the deeps
 They pour forth in torrents
 And fountains.
  
 When I think of you
 I think of waters—
 A small pool with lilies adrift,
 Catching the overflow of the world,
 Or the drops that nestle beaded
 Among the mosses.
 A place of ferment
 Where change is constant,
 A place of stillness,
 Of quiet generation,
 Where I am reflected back at myself
 And forced to listen—
 Waters that go down to the depths,
 Springing out of the bones of the earth
 Renewed.