Well-carved paths—
clear,
defined—
form living pools
where all things good
and precious grow.
Laboring at the emerald pools—
mending tall retaining nets,
tending growing silvery jewels,
keeping watch on bird and snake—
all our eyes
on water and sky.
When time-to-time,
torrential rains
submerge the paths—
all pools, one lake—
then all our thoughts are on the crop—
the goodness safe in well-laid nets.
But now the dry has seasoned in—
waters low reveal the state,
of what lurked underneath:
The once-sharp paths have withered down—
a slide of silt that shallows all;
fish flounder in their soiled wells.
So dredge that dirt up from those depths
and pack it back behind its bounds.
Repair the walls that shored it up—
raise once more forgotten beams,
the path made sure by fallen tree.
Remember now neglected truth—
It is the path
that makes the pool.