Dihydrogen monoxide (when cold)
is a slow and steady thing.
A six-fold miracle,
hiding cruelty (hiding grace)
in microscopic smallness,
only realised as we watch it coalesce
to melt on a tongue, warm with life,
to shroud the grass and the roofs and the roads,
to pillow the pocked and fretted earth,
and make it smooth again.
To cover the eyelids of the dead,
indiscriminate as dust.