We Will Have Water
The ground is dry.
A drought of biblical proportions has gripped the land, and the people, the poor people, who struggle for their daily bread, must now struggle for water.
Water, a mist down from the mountains, or in from the sea, drifts over the land, and over the people, the poor people, who thirst for a drink of cool, clean water that just won't fall.
See the woman, the poor woman, walking on rocks and dust, searching for water. Don't see through your eyes. See through her eyes, and look and look for water that is there, but isn't.
Hear the children, the poor children, asking for water, rolling their wheels in the dust. Don't hear through your ears. Hear through their ears, and listen for water that is there, but isn't.
Touch the hands, the hands of the men, the poor men, planting their fields in the dust. Don't touch them with your hands. Touch through their hands, and feel the ground for water that is there, but isn't.
Smell the air, the dust from the ground, the mist in the sky, and breathe in the dusty mist, and gasp until your lungs weep without tears, crying for water. Don't breathe with your lungs. Breathe through their lungs, and gasp for water that is there, but isn't.
Taste the water? No, there is no water for them, though there is water. Cry out for cool, clear water streaming over your face and onto your tongue, quenching the thirst of your family, of you, with water.
Water that is here, but isn't.
The people, the poor people, touch the hems of the garments of the few who have water, cool clean water.
"Yes, you will have water, but not yet, not in the here and now, only in the there and then."
"No, we will have water, already, not in the there and then, but in the here and now, we will have water."
- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown-eyed girl, 2020
WTF
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