Water finds Its own level.

Some theories of the pyramids say that the Egyptian engineers built the foundations on this simple principle. Others know that it means water disappears. And appears when needed. It has a mind of its own.


And when, it falls from the sky, as a little drop, it doesn’t think. It is water. In spite of all the equations scientists have, it goes down. It falls from the sky and goes down until it can’t go down any more.


It hits the ground and still it wants to go down. Into or across the soil, it doesn’t care. If it mixes with the soil and takes some with it, the drop doesn’t care. It is but one drop.


But the drop has brothers, cousins. A motion, a look, a touch, they are all the same – each drop takes a grain of sand, a lump of soil. And it finds its own level; coursing alone yet cascading in consanguinity.


A rivulet forms. A gush. Eventually a torrent. Flows are those drops, each with their own name from distant lands. The soil relents – rock is carved.


The lovers stand at the edge of the canyon, and narrator knows that no matter how wide and deep the canyon, each drop only makes it deeper and wider still.

Pygmalion

Inch by
Inch and swing
By swing the hammer
Beats the chisel. The rock, veined
Like cheese but hard like cold you cannot
ignore. The rock yields: A face
and arms
And a longing glance
the artist thinks He frees from
its prison. He falls in love
with his
Creation, only
Ignorant that
He exists
Only because she
Created him.

Monemt in the Sun.

Einstein
is a nobody
without
Nineteen
Oh Five.