An Ode To Water

In winter
it is a drink that
I disdain
unless it steeps
my tea—
give me instead
the taste
of fermented grape—
or a shot
taken straight—
the first
for its afterglow of
contentment—
the latter whenever
I require an
immediate blast of
furnace heat

In summer
such abstention is
rescinded—in
cup glass or dipper—
bring me
the well’s depths—
aged nectar
from ancient clouds—
with a tang of
iron for seasoning—
something so
elementally simple
that the sun’s
furnace is nullified
by the shock
of its ambrosia’s
aching chill

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