glass half full

There’s no telling

How long it’s sat there

Resting in the glass

Half full

After lingering with it

In their cupped hands

We engage the nightly liturgy

Always starting in the middle

With the repetitious refrain,

“I think it’s stale.

Can you throw it out,

And bring me some new water?”

The invitation to this ritual

Arises out of awareness

That even things that seem

Clear on the surface

Hide their stagnancy

In plain sight

I treasure these short journeys

Carrying for them

In this clear container

Something that hydrates

With nourishing transparency

I wonder sometimes

In the space in between

About that bottomless well

Motionless and dark

And how long these

Beautiful expressions

Of sacred receptivity

Will be tasked with drinking

And carrying

That old water

Fearing that each sip

Holds within its expected effect

A wet betrayal

In the guise of quenched thirst

With plenty left over

To offer me

When we meet again

In their half empty glasses