Of Water and Want
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There was a brook behind the house—
I would’ve been ten years old. Beyond
that the woods with its floor of moss
and pine needles, a fresh crop of saplings.
Late July. My fingers stained from berries.
How often did I untie my laces, pull off
my socks and wade into the bone-chilling
water, arms raised up like a tightrope walker,
measuring the space between risk and reward?
Not often. Mostly, I stood on the soft-earth,
watching the water bugs—their delicate legs
straddling the surface. Why now, do I remember
the streambed, the feel of the slick pebbles, worn
clean? We have many chances. But only one life.