Oh my dear, how I long to talk,
telling you my private thoughts,
feeling the warmth of your interest.
I wish to be found fascinating
by one person, maybe two.
Like me enough to ask me questions.
Send a bucket down my well
knowing I am a deep reservoir
with much to give
to those who ask.
I do not splash my being
but I will water anyone who is thirsty.
In the age of the downpour of information,
who has the time to notice thirst,
to long for soul? Who has
the wherewithal to name the longing?
Much less the patience to ask
. . . and wait . . .
for the bottomless drink
that I am.
*This one is dedicated to Kelsey, who is an eternal spring.*