Shower Story

If the water all around us and beneath us
is the same that's been here ever since
the sun first rose and set, I wonder if
the droplets in my shower can
remember when they rained down hot
and comforting upon the angular and
awkward child who made up stories
standing there, ever waiting in the rain
for something Special to appear.
Now that I am grown, and old
(by certain calculations),  if my weary
tears tonight add salt to water slipping
all around mature and fully-formed
curvaceousness and down the drain, perhaps
someone across the city or the state
will step into the shower later, tasting them,
mistaking them for softened water when it's really
just the stuff of what must fall occasionally,
when one is waiting. Still.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014