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There are, I think, worlds of wells within us.
Some shortly narrow, others deep and wild,
some not so wide as a church-door
yet ‘twill serve, ‘twill serve.

This one wants for water in its dry, stone soul.
It prays for coolness under summer’s hand
and names affection wet
within a desert cracked with longing.

This one holds oceans within its hard, lost arms.
It drowns itself in bitter, fear and loss,
so full to overflowing that its salt-song floods forth;
an aching aria via amaurotic eyes.

But this seeming endless source may not be staunched with tears.
Nor will its level drop with forceful sharing,
though some still ladle it out, dipper by dipper,
to choke the ones around them with a hurtful drink.

So reach instead into the waiting of your heart-spring,
be it vast and full, or bone dry, empty even of echoes.
For to serve a single mote of love’s dust from an earnest cup
will quench and fill you more than a lifetime of wounding.

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Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
muddyslush
Apr. 22nd, 2011 09:39 pm (UTC)
Amen!
hrhqod1
Apr. 25th, 2011 12:17 am (UTC)
I've been thinking about this:

But this seeming endless source may not be staunched with tears.
Nor will its level drop with forceful sharing,
though some still ladle it out, dipper by dipper,
to choke the ones around them with a hurtful drink.


It feels so much like the process of Kala. Like all my pain can't simply be released cup by cupful. Not when more keeps pouring in.

Really beautiful.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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