There’s plenty of it on this sphere of ours,
in solid state, in liquid, and in steam.
Life’s brimming with it, from lobelia stem
to giant redwood bole. I’m free with oars
to row a boat, or in a canoe to paddle
to Boston, Antwerp—anywhere I wish.
If I get mucky, I’ll jump right in and wash
or watch the buntings bathing in a puddle
or peddle water filters, piddle about
the house all day and, sipping sparkling water,
reflect on all the ways Earth will get wetter,
drowning the waterfront. Since I’ve no boat,
I clamber, higher, higher toward the summit—
the flood like vipers creeping up the slope,
each drop from the sundered sky a savage slap—
yet knowing there is no escaping from it.