The Earth dazed from thirst

and streams not yet pouring
--ice, thin and weakened, drips, first
hammers off the smaller stones
to rebuild the pitcher and the slope

--the water will plunge, each Spring
and under my footsteps
again the reeking mud :you will drink
till every creek and my shadow
opens its torn umbrella :the sun
over my shoulder, haggard.

I bring you a flower
as even the seas dive into rock
for water --this bloom
will bleach slowly, like a train
with only one passenger no one sees.

Only you. And the shovelfuls
and when does this ice
weightless all winter, knocking
as if there was still a cup
and you had a tablecloth, expecting me.

Simon Perchik