Water

Sunless waves sleep not

but seek pleasant mornings

and warmer shores

to the left of twilight.

Water is pale.

She hears sad tales

of perfection lost

in a land of rotten fruit,

ripening to rain.

Wake to the dirge,

bright with morning,

a young world, a new curse

an antediluvian vine.

Water is spent.

She crawls to her bed

and sleeps

while the new trees grow

over hearts of stone.

Sunless waves sleep not

laced in ice and curled

against the darkened

bookends of the world.

Water is gaunt.

She longs for rest

on far-off shores,

rest for the laborer,

rest for time.

Wake not the night

till Perfection arrives.

First published in As Surely as the Sun Literary, Issue 4, p. 15-16