two bowls

a bowl of dirt

a bowl of water

from a cup
on his working table
he poured
a little water

he tipped
a small quantum
of garden soil

that gave
a little splash

that dispersed
as though it was cloud

then drowned
taken into the tilth
of the soil

leaving behind
a shading
of darkness

he poured more
until the dirt
turned runny

he tipped more
the water
embodied

oozing through fingers
like warmed plasticine

running through his fingers
like a slipping
of mud

he poured more
until it was
a wash of slurry

he tipped more
there was no water

shining brown
in the light
and sliding

just a damp mound
of dirt
and an empty cup

he poured more

he tipped more

dirty water

dirt
only dirt
no sign of water

slipping through his fingers
falling
to the elongated splash
of a droplet

squeezed through his fingers
it barely held form

falling into itself
again

serene
coffee brown

a rattle of dirt
reaching dirt

settled
into a water bowl


© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #36: outline of today

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2 thoughts on “two bowls

  1. For me, something very pleasant about this, maybe its physicality. When I was child, our backyard had almost no grass, only dirt, and I used to take the garden hose, push it into the ground, turn on the tap and make a hole with a fountain of mud. Very enjoyable Frank.

    Liked by 1 person

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