En route to the Earth—that's
the pure part, that's when the light
of the Sun is uncontaminated
and in its richest glory. And then
it arrives here, and it necessarily
dwindles and thins: becomes that leaf,
this lake, the dazzle off cars in traffic,
my wife asleep in the sheets.
Dickens points out that water in which
the goldsmiths washed their hands was sold
to refiners, having a secondary,
yet still impressive, value.
[via poetry daily]