confluence

three hills
flowers on each
blossom brightly
rains of science
pseudoscience
and poetry
feed their bliss
run down their slopes

dip my ladle in the lake
at the confluence in the valley
stand upon the shores of fate
sipping sumptuous broth
ladle dangling from my hand
as if to it i’d pledged my troth

with dripping lips
and dazzled gaze
a question bubbles up
are buds of taste
of me or any one
refined enough
to distinguish the three waters
discern from whence they came

another bubble
percolates up
through the broth
i think not
to ask its name
listen to its tale
it sings a sure refrain

water is water
is it not
it feeds us
just the same

deep inside my well
an echo back

are buds of taste
refined enough
to distinguish the three waters
discern from whence they came

what matters not
and what does
my feet must help explain
up each hill i climb
inhale the fragrance
of their flowers
taste their breed of rain

of each of three
i sample thrice
tasting rains of poetry
of science and the pseudostuff
walk through fields of flowers
great wreaths and garlands
woven again and again

then descend once more
to the confluence
of their streams
and sample the great river
dammed up in my dear lake
dip my ladle in the lake
and stand afraid to drink

a bird flies to my hand
sips lavishly
from the fount
the ladle’s little lake
she stares at me
and flies away
i dip again
and taste three rains

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About Brad Werner

Technical Evangelist
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