Enchained

The last thing the water wants
Is to start wanting something.

Look at it, pooled in its dent
In the mountain, captured snow

And rain, evaporating
As the winds ruffle the waves.

It’s water. It’s not a thing,
Not a single living thing,

Although, of course, full of them,
The black, the brown, and the green

Living things, chains of beings
Drinking it in, making it,

Water that longs for nothing,
Part of them and their longing.