The Waters of March
(aka Aguas de Marco)
by Antonio Carlos Jobim
A stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road,
It’s the rest of the stump, it’s a little alone,
It’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun,
It is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gun.
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush,
The knot in the wood, the song of the thrush.
The wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.
It’s the wind blowing free, it’s the end of a slope,
It’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope.
And the riverbank talks of the water of march.
It’s the end of the strain, it’s the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground, the flesh, the bone,
The beat of the road, a slingshot stone.
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow,
A fight, a bet, the range of the bow.
The bed of the well, the end of the line,
The dismay in the face, it’s a loss, it’s a find.
A spear, a spike, a point, a nail,
A drip, a drop, the end of the tale.
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun, in the dead of the night.
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump.
It’s a girl, it’s a rhyme, it’s the cold, it’s the mumps,
The plan of the house, the body in bed,
The car that got stuck, it’s the mud, it’s the mud.
A float, a drift, a flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail, the promise of spring.
And the riverbanks talks of the waters of march.
It’s the promise of life, it’s the joy in your heart.
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe,
It’s a thorn in your hand, and a cut on your toe.
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard, the sudden stroke of night.
A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle, a weep, a stain.
A pass in the mountains, a horse, a mule,
In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue.
And the riverbank talks of the promise of life
In your heart, in your heart.
A stick, a stone, the end of the load,
The rest of the stump, a lonesome road.
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun,
A night, a death, the end of the run.
And the riverbank talks of the waters of march
It’s the end of all strain,
It’s the joy in your heart……………………
Time for me to bitch and moan about daylight savings again…..
Control freaks that we are ……. trying to manipulate time to our advantage.
I’m WIDE AWAKE when the clock says it’s time to sleep.
I’m DRAGGING when the alarm goes off in the morning.
WHY do we still do this??????
Well, regardless of my time-change frustration,
absolutely NOTHING could change the NOW moments of BEAUTY on a day like today,
(MY POEM’S RHTHYM WAS INSPIRED BY THE WATERS OF MARCH)
The blazing sun……. the family fun …….. the walks outside ……. the trees and the sky
The smiles and shares …….. the food and talk of bears …….. the word games in the car… and being silly as we are …….
and the grandson’s joy of winning monopoly …….. and knowing time is as free …..
As THE JOY IN YOUR HEART.