no thirst in the well of the reverent


When a lake’s edge catches fire, you put it out; when a field does, you wait for rain. The way water works itself into the world of living things forces itself into the highest position of power.


His wooden stick, a prayer, or maybe a staff given by Moses himself, brought thirst away from the land. He borrowed from the earth only what he could give back with the holy trust of only the powers that may. What some see as inevitably begotten, his prayer painted the humidity for days on end. Woods surrounding, a playground for deer and two generations of blonde-haired, blue-eyed natives in a sense of the heart. What the skin, borne-and-bred, give is only fleeting, and the bark of old only notices how the talking ones retreat into it—dug or lust.


The opposite of love is not hate but power. When God brings a well that almost seems like his own living breath, only the humble, feeble hand of a gardener can see beyond his pronged stick, bending down toward the skin of God’s dirt-caked creation. One family, and then another, the dishes were clean and so were their round faces.


On this land sits a house with five rooms, a basement collected the rust of torn worlds—a piano with wooden keys that when played, ghosts themselves turned into the corners in sweet retreat. A den, a home, a boy’s calm from the storm of life. Storage, hope, and yet it only stood by wooded beams.


What can you do when the strawberries become rotten? There was a peach, and it was the most delicious piece of fruit you could ever let your taste buds dance upon. And when the last howl of the basset hound cries to the moon, you know it is time for the well to break. A new family moved in, days later, the water gave in. Let not this change your opinion of God but only the spirits that sit near the core of Earth, waiting only to bestow its power, whether for its own gain or wisdom, to the waking ones again. Too few can grin with lips not chapped, their own wrinkles a force of nature; his veins could and will forever feel the movement underneath, the slow-spin of the Earth around the sun.

Published by celinamcmanus

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