Only Water
A brown towhee beckons, so
following into a hidden grotto
stepping cautiously around
the guarding poison oak
(wearing my mugwort armor)
I just flick off a crawling tick
minding the gooseberry's
scratching thorns, avoiding
the stinging nettle.
Hearing a whirling dancing
sound, holding wet granite
with bracing hand
cool sand under sock
I sip directly from the ground
remembering why it's called
a spring. Drowning winter worries
in this sacred blood of rock
intoxication is shared by the living
prayer of scarlet monkeyflowers
drinking with me at this wild west
saloon that serves only water.