…given to those few fools

who float in magic pools

where the water, clear and cool,

can not be seen, splashed or swallowed by,

would not even wet

a non-believer in the Mystery,

but a faithful acolyte might even drown

if she were not careful to test how deep

before she dove down

into its unfathomable depths,

but still, just right there,

only inches shallow,

sandy bottom close enough to touch

as she stretches out her hand to reach for it

or dives in,

wringing out her blue-jeans and T-shirt later,

or cannon-balls,

nude,

remembering to dress after

so’s not to shock

all those not-wet-ones

who refuse to believe in

the evidence before their eyes

or the liquid substance soaking her hair,

dripping from her fingers,

Her breasts and belly,

sparkling wet,

the sheen reflecting sunlight

on this hot, summer afternoon…