Adam’s Ale
Adam’s Ale
—the old name for water, the first drink, the simplest thirst.
Bougainvillea, thorn-armored bloom,
plankton drifting—algae, crustaceans—
a hidden kingdom in an inland basin,
non-oceanic water breathing its own tides.
I splash my face in the reservoir,
Adam’s ale cooling my skin,
while light bends and scatters—
I am refracted,
a prism made of flesh and ache,
splintering into the many rays of sun.
I sit beneath an arboreal sky,
ceiling woven from foliage and verdure,
cathedral of green where shadows
keep their soft liturgy.
Saudade gnaws the marrow of light,
and my sunlit heart caves inward.
I hunger for your presence,
for the echo of your breath in the leaves.
If the day could linger—
just one more turn of the earth—
I would not ask for forever.
But even plankton drift toward dark,
their glow extinguished in the basin’s hush;
so too my heart, without your light.
Copyright © Gabrielle Munslow | Year Posted 2025
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