Water flows west, no it only flows east. But never north, ever. Except, maybe, in the Nile. And into me.
The tangled roots, stretching into the earth, through the now-calm crust – no longer trembling with the weight of humanity – those roots going inch by inch. Deeper to a core. To the mystery of it all.
And the water, the talent I have to draw it in, the reverse osmosis, the pressure, my sheer will to exist and be permanent, drawing it up, through the elongated cells, capillaries spread out like spider webs, the veins that zig zag but always point to the sky. Water, climbing, ever so high. To the limbs, the twigs, the buds, and finally, the leaves. Me. the jewel in the crown.
The water, coming into the perfect permutation, so perfect that everyone and everything mirrors me – the fractals, turning out and out, stretching into what is exquisite perfection, in a pattern that matches that first view of rivers, watersheds, oceans – the one that takes your breath away – the view of earth from space.
Until the light darkens, the winds come from the north, and I too am free, swirling, back, down to the earth, to the crust, to disintegrate, without water, leaving my skeleton, until my permanence is no longer.