"I wish you water," a Poem
A poem inspired by a phrase from the late Dr. Wallace J Nichols: "I wish you water."
Bricks laid round, up up from the ground, grass gangly roots poking between the mortar. A tiny bucket dangles, suspended over water too far down for anyone to see. Another wisher comes wanting, creases in her palm smudged jacinthe from the copper. She hopes she is not mistaken for cheap. Before the toss, she leans in and looks down and hesitates, then calls out asking will the wish make her well. Before the echo fades to silence and her grit fades to reticence, she drops the coin into the darkness deep below. The splash is small, barely a whisper. I wish you well, dear wishing well. Earth creeping through fortified walls, stones loosened by decades of tiny ripples dreams cast down in hopes of resurrection or, at the very least, a brief appearance, a hello from across the room only to disappear into the crowd. I have seen many come to me, too many to count and yet too many to forget, each one depositing something precious, even if useless elsewhere. I have a way with transformation and leveling. I accepted a silver dollar once and just now, a penny. Neither is greater than the other, nor lesser, and to each and all, I listen, their pleas far away, often directed at the sky but occasionally someone says to me I wish you well. And I well wish them as well but I wish them water. Fractured light. Pellucid waves lapping against stones worn smooth from decades of ebb and flow. Hushed voices in the night. Warbles bouncing off cave walls. Confined space expanding, undulating. Wave after wave. Deep calling to deep. Like glass, glow ing blue a refl ection and recon stitu tion of every thing you thought you knew. A reminder that the world through your eyes is more malleable than you like to think. That what you see isn't always true but that doesn't make it any less real. I wish you water. I wish you salty inhales and foamy releases. Pale greens and misunderstood umbers. I wish you bubbles and heat and torrents and crashes. Direction and pull and cycles and memory. I wish you safe passage over cliffs and quiet moments of suspension, the weightlessness of evaporation and the joy of reuniting with pieces of yourself you thought had been scattered to the wind. I wish you well. Well, I wish you water.
— khm —
I have never read Dr. Wallace J. Nichols’ Blue Mind. I have it on good authority that it is an exceptional piece of work by a thoughtful mind. I have bought it. I shall read it and report back. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this poem—and can find a little bit of peace or hope or inspiration from a body of water some time, as I have before and will again.