Water At Night Poem by Birgit Bunzel Linder

In the middle of every night,
the moon’s noise wakes me.
I hear water everywhere.

Water that whispers in capillaries.
Water that hides under cracks.
Water white with soap.
Water quiet from coal.
Water that drips into the aquarium.
Water that leaps from the roof.
Water that cascades down the stairs.
Water that rushes over the road.

Water always goes the path of least resistance.
Water always finds a way.

Water has ways to flow in places far away.
You can cross the waters to America.
Or to the Cape of Good Hope.
Water scuttles ice down the Red River.
Water mollifies the leatherbacks in Nicobar.
Water carries you through monsoon jungles,
and eases you down to warlorn submarines.

Water swallows seekers of life,
until fish swim in our inhumanity.

Half asleep I search for the white bucket,
like every night,
fill it with warm water.
Water draws women to the well,
where it changes from dark to light.
I reach for my father’s weary feet
that have come in from the dusty road,
like every night,
to wash his tiredness away.
Water washes away guilt.
But his chair is empty.
The pillow has fallen
onto the exhausted rug.
Water is a carpet to the faithful.
Water is always more than itself.

Or less, the Mariner says.
Yes, I envy the ocean’s generosity,
that lets its fish swim freely.
I pour the bucket to the fish.
It changes from dark to light.
I feel water everywhere.
It is rising to my eyes.
Maybe I, too, have lived too long
Where I can be reached.*

*Rumi