Water Has a Need

It was just water, but it came from a well
so deep that nothing had contaminated it,
and it was cold, cold enough to quench the
kind of thirst you have after working all day
in the hot sun, parched, skin turning to leather
from dehydration. It was poured generously
into cups and bottles and vessels and tasted,
set aside with upturned noses, disregarded.
Water. We don't want water. Purpose unfulfilled,
the liquid turned cloudy, flat. Because they
had no perceived value, filled bottles were carelessly
toppled over, precious contents spilled,
sent back on the long journey to its source
far beneath the earth, through rocks and sand.
Wasted. But not all.
One bottle, cast aside, ignored but without
damage done, survived until a truly thirsty soul
looked up, found a stool to stand on so it could be
reached. A tentative taste - it might have been anything -
gave way to gulps of sweetness and the satisfied sigh
of one who finds, at last, the treasure he
didn't even know that he was seeking.
Thirst dissipated as the water became part
of him, filling cells, the nooks and crannies
of who he was, until every drop was gone,
and he became the vessel for the water.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013