DEAD WATER
Here is a ditch of hopelessly dead water. A cool breeze would not raise the slightest ripple on it. You might throw in some scraps of copper and rusty tins, or dump in as well the remains of your meal.
Perhaps the green on copper will turn into emeralds, or the rust on tin will sprout a few peach blossoms. Let grease weave a layer of fine silk-gauze, and mold steam out a few red-glowing clouds.
Let the dead water ferment into a ditch of green vine, floating with pearls of white foam; but the laughter of small pearls turning into large pearls is broken by spotted mosquitoes stealing the wine.
Thus a ditch of hopelessly dead water can yet claim a bit of something bright. And if the frogs can’t endure the utter solitude, let the dead water burst into song.
Here is a ditch of hopelessly dead water. Here beauty can never reside. You might as well let ugliness come and cultivate it, and see what kind of world comes out.