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By John I. Blair

What would be
In a moist land
A common ditch
To stumble down,
A muddy mess,
Mosquito breeder,
Crawdad homestead,
Looks very different
In a land of little rain.

Here it beckons
Like a flowering mirage,
A lush oasis, an artery,
A precious privilege,
A patrimony,
Ample cause for courage
And bloodshed.

We don’t properly love
The things that give us life
Until they’re rare,
A whiff of air in a toxic tunnel,
A spark of light in a jungle night,
This little rill of flowing water
In a parched desert.

©2004 John I. Blair  

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