Flow is my nature. I am uncontained. I am contained by legions. But my essence is gift, and from my self-donation life follows.
Can you endure long without my self-gifting? Three days? Five? The Bedouins understand how precious I am. They value me beyond gold, and for good reason.
True, my giving can come in extremis. Floods drown your towns and ruin your homes. Storm surges rob your cities of power for days, weeks, months. The torrential downpour of hurricanes compounds the woes wrought by wrecking winds.
But again: would you prefer my self-witholding? Folk flee the lands they held for generations. Dried skin and parched lips plead for even a drop of me. Is the Sahara not testament enough to how essential I am?
Ever flowing, ever giving—even when I don’t. Embrace how precious I am to you.
Don’t take me for granted…
above
the flow of tides
waning moon
I reach out for
a sip
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, where pubtender Merril hosts Poetics: It’s a Given, we write using a form of the word give.
The pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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