Writ in Water

every morning, who stitches the clouds together,

whether the sun rises or the dawn looks bleak,

long since bleached of color, dishwater blue,

draining down from the frothy soap heavens

and onto my journal, where I write, blurring the words

obscuring the lines between lines and lies

and who would lie to a diary, unless the skies

are liquid azure and the sun melted gold -

and even when

rivers from melted snow from falling water

lifted from the sea split from the streams

passed along the rivers - even in redundancy

water is never drudgery, but sometimes currents

submerge into waters cold and dark

or distant ponds of algae and forest swans

gather wings, lilies, and frogs in a silent, monastic

hymn of morning, and if no one is around to listen

I think the music streams into the seas of our souls

without a doubt, John, all life is writ in water