Watering the roots

When I learnt about drip irrigation in school,
I had no idea what it looked like,
no pictures or illustrations
in the chapter on agriculture,
only the line-drawing of a man with a dhoti
carrying hay on his head,
his mustache large and black, his torso unclothed.
 
Years later, I take the kids to a visit an organic farm
run by the local school,
and ask the students to stand in line and behave well,
to absorb all they see - like a sponge, water.
They do. Between whispers and giggles.
Then they help make a drip-irrigation pipe
with their adept and nimble fingers,
unlike my knotty and arthritic ones.
The water drips from the pipe
slowly, slowly,
drop by drop, straight to the roots
through some magic network of tubes and valves.
 
But how strange that I am reminded
of the grief, happiness, wonder, care,
and all else welling up in me
to irrigate drop by drop by drop,
the kernel of who I am,
and how much I love,
how on grey days,
or on bright ones,
the faucet mustn’t stop
dripping.