— after a title by Rumi
It hasn’t always been dry.
Once it had the kiss of a salty lip.
The jar had been opened
in a moment of need.
The design met the desire
of the opener. First, a hand,
damp with sweat and grimy
with garden dirt reached out
thought nothing of future want,
eventual need, swiveled
the metal lid after a brief effort.
The dry tongue and aching lung
tipped the glass jar to the sun
and water was like a meal, elemental,
like breaking the surface of water
after holding a breath for too long.
Now, its rim is dry, a vessel
awaiting the richness of refilling.