Should have foreseen destined days.
For years nothing.
Parched.
First, grass, then flowers.
Crackle 'neath my feet.
All dead.
Under constant demand.
Pumping.
Bottles.
Jugs.
Carboys.
Pools.
Lakes.
Oceans.
Until the parched led the parched.
Trodding through desert days.
Still they came.
Desensitized to my dry hose.
Forgetting this is not the way.
Unaware of cloudless skies.
Sane(?) (wo)men ask, no, they state, “what did you expect!”
But where were they when the hose ran free.
Where were they when life seemed abundant?
Where were they before all the flowers died!
Predictors of the past, be gone!!
I finally dropped the hose.
If that is what you call it.
Lying on the ground.
Now what.
Still so much need.
But none for me.
Lying ‘neath a tree.
Dry leaves rattle in the wind.
One.
Two.
Three...years tick by.
Then one drop.
Two.
Three...
At first only imbuing my cracked skin.
Slowly, ever so slowly soaking in...
No wait, not soaking.
Flowing.
Tears flowing.
One.
Two.
Three.
Years of stillness, not waiting for rain.
But for regeneration.
From within.
Newness of soul.
Capable of self-sustenance...
It’s always been capable of self-sustenance.
Plus a little more.
Capable of another’s impermanent refreshment.
But never salvation.
Never someones else’s life source.
No.
Their damned wells must also run dry.
’Til they too lie lifeless on the ground.
Waiting for rain that never comes.
Some won’t make it.
Some will.
Awakening to tear streaked cheeks.
About this poem:
For the second time in the last two years the well at my studio has run dry. Two years ago I had a new well drilled thinking that would solve the problem. I guess not permanently. While dealing with this I realized the parallel between my shop well drying up and my emotional well drying up while I was a pastor which was due in part because of the emotional energy I spent trying to rescue other people.