Three percent is all they say The sweet water of a water planet Three percent The cool drink, the soft rain Rare as blood, rare as luck, rare To our wet hands, shining. From the far sky, adrift in curds and blankets Whips and knots, anvils towering thunder hammers Rain the hand of kindness down To our fields, our mouths, the dancing springs And cold rivers, snaking the glens of Earth to the sky again. Do we take you for granted, o three percent? Do we curse you for flooding, pop our grumbrellas On a wet walk to the office? Not I. Not when puddles leap for joy and silver…