'That'll put the jizz back in you,'
said old Brid, her eyes glinting,
as she handed me a bowl of real water
from the purest well in Gleann an Atha...
'It's had to find a well these days,'
said old Brid, filling up my bowl again.
'They're hiding in rushes and juking in grass,
all choked up and clatty with scum
but for all the neglect they get
their mettle is still true.
Look for your own well, pet,
for there's a hard time coming.
There will have to be a going back to sources.'
the battered rock
orbiting a star
from the discount bin
of the universe,
wouldn't have guessed
that it would bloom
mitochondria and music,
that it would mushroom
mountains and minds,
and the hummingbird wing
whirring a hundred times faster
than your eye can blink...
...and the marbled orca
carrying her dead calf
down the entire edge
of the continent,
carrying the weight
of consciousness
and consciousness
how it windows
this tenement
of breath and bone
with wonder,
how it hovers over everything,
gigantic and unnecessary,
like music,
like love.