... though possibly a blueprint. An initial sketch of one. Written in response to Hiro Boga's Elegy:


FOUNTAIN

By my side, a sailor spits
because I cannot offer wine instead of water.
A few feet away, a pastor casts
a penny upon me, praying for
a return of loaves and fishes.
A bartender sits on my rim and sighs
because it is not a chair on a beach.
A farmer frowns at my pointlessness,
her crops thirstily thin and sad
while I merrily water stone.

No matter how fiercely
your palms push at my arcs,
I cannot undo the walls that define me,
or hold back the outpour
that forms my very shape and song.
No matter which deserts
have seared and scoured you,
I cannot turn myself
into the whispers of rain
or the sweet heat of ripening grapes

but oh, to give you what I can --
splashings of light,
a rinse of chimes,
a thousand mirrors within the kiss
of water to steel and stone --
I cannot bestow upon you
more than what I am

yet for a non-elusive grace -- a ready
witness to mundane joys, a murmured
echoing of tears -- for even that,
some would sell their souls to touch:
I offer you that little and that much.

~ m.

---

The more I think about it, the less surprised I am that I have fountains on the mind: Gregoire's haunting rendition of "Au clair de la fontaine" is on my current playlist, the Smiths' "Reel Around the Fountain" is threatening to earworm me (the BYM and I went to Mercy Lounge last night to hear some bands play through The Queen is Dead), and I was recently discussing what I enjoyed about France to someone about to head there for a vacation. I have yet to organize my snapshots from Aix-en-Provence, but here are some glimpses of its many fountains:












This last was actually just outside my hotel room window, in the courtyard. And there was also a nearby alley called "Fountain Street" that had no fountain on it at all.