I make mudras,
with a flick of fingers,
sleight of hand,
trying to make water,
shower magic,
reveal itself,
sluice in spills.
I am waving
my hands to
and fro, like
a Copperfield
pro, and the
wide-span
mirror reflects
me in mirth.
How silly I
appear as water
does not whet
my appetite to
come clean.
A few drops,
a spurt and then
abrupt it stops,
my hands suddenly
freeze as poised
as a pair of
hands in prayer,
but nothing is brought.
So I flourish again,
gentle to the left
and gentle to the right,
two soaped palms
in flight, waving like
wands and trying
to make the water,
create the spills,
enjoy the rinse.
(i sometimes get amused, at times annoyed, with no-touch sensor water faucets)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
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