The physiologist says I am well over
half water.
I feel, look, solid; am
though leaky firm.
Yet I am composed
largely of water.
How the composer turned us out
this way, even the learned few do not
explain. That’s life.
And we’re in need of
more water, over and over, repeatedly
thirsty, and unclean.
The body of this earth
has water under it and
over, from
where the long winds sough
tirelessly over water, or shriek around
curved distances of ice.
Sky and earth invisibly
breathe skyfuls of
water, visible when it
finds its own level.
Even in me?
Kin to waterfalls
and glacial lakes and sloughs
and all that flows and surges,
yet I go steadily,
or without distillation climb at will
(until a dissolution
nobody anticipates).
I’m something else besides.
The biochemist does not
concern himself with this.
It too seems substance,
A vital bond threaded on an
as-if loom out there.
The strand within
thrums and shudders and twists.
It cleaves to this
colour or texture and
singles out to a rhythm
almost its own, again,
anticipating design.
But never any of us
physiologist or fisherman
or I
quite makes sense of it. We
find our own level
as prairie, auburn or
snow-streaming, sounds forever
the almost limitless.
Copyright © 2002, Margaret Avison, Concrete and Wild Carrot (Brick Books)
