Thirst

Jan 3 2016

A flurry of snow

a shower of rain

a stillness of fog.

Or fossilized,

inky cisterns

that taste of rock.

Most of us water

replenishing ourselves.

The weather

felt in the bone;

desert, monsoon

antipodal.

The change of state

depending on pressure, and heat

osmotic load.

Turbid, or clear

salty, or sweet

pacific, serene?

How long, without drink?

How much is thirst

how much need?

One ocean

circumnavigates the world,

each molecule

as old as the earth.

Each container

a vessel of clay,

that returns to the soil

from which it came.

A kind of stream of consciousness riff. It started in a most unlikely place. I've noticed that US weather reports will refer to "snow showers". You never hear this from Environment Canada, where it's invariably "flurries", or "snowfall" of so many cm: in Canada, apparently, only liquid precipitation comes in showers.

Water is a great symbol in literature and a great subject for poetry. It is enduring, universal, essential. It gives life, and takes it away. It comes in many forms; yet remains unchanged. The seas are the lungs of the earth. And our blood has the same salt. In our first 9 months, we are marine creatures, submerged in an amniotic ocean. The bible talks about ashes to ashes and dust to dust. But what about the other 90% of us? They've found water on the moon, water on Mars: a precious substance, yet ubiquitous in the universe.

I'm always happy to get the physics right. So how nice to find a rhyme for osmotic load. Although I'm not so pleased about the obscure language: osmotic and antipodal, to be exact. But both the sound and meaning fit, so the choice was made.