As my daughter would say, when she wants a refill, “Mom, may I have some more nice refreshing water?”
That thing that my son likes to send down the drain at alarming rates while he “forgets” what the shower is for and plays.
In the cool of night, it collects on the edges of leaves, petals and silken strands of webs to shimmer in the early morning sun.
It hangs invisibly in the air, making it sticky and humid, to which we complain at great lengths.
It falls from the sky in beautiful, floating, sound muffling whiteness. To which, most of us again, complain at great lengths.
With just the right components in the air, it can melt off the roof, drip, and freeze again in crystal clear wonder at the bottom of an icicle that catches the afternoon light just so.
It makes that relaxing sound on the tin roof of my front porch.
Brings a wonderful smell to parched, dying of thirst, desert sands.
Revives seemingly dead plants from their slumber to grow green and vibrant.
Awakens wildflower seeds from their winter nap to bloom and fill the hillsides with color – and bees.
Turns my backyard into a sanctuary for birds, captivating my children.
Moves mountains and breaks apart boulders with more subtlety than I can every muster.
Propelled at the right velocity, it can cut through bedrock like butter.
It can keep you alive longer than food if you are lost in the wilderness.
Our bodies contain more of it than anything else.
The main component to our morning cup of steaming coffee or honey kissed herbal tea.
It hangs in the sky fluffy and white, or swirls around us, angry and black.
It covers more of our planet than land.
A force that sustains more life than any other element.
So simple a need, so simple a thing as water.