The Well of Presence
We find ourselves, in a garden, again.
If you must dip in and down,
just now and again,
testing the waters,
towards some base of knowing me,
then do so, gently.
For, in tilting your head to look in there
where the gloom and the unseen light resided,
you ask “Have you accepted?”
Then the echo back, from me,
“Yes, what else?”
“Because what else, beyond that, was there to do?”
Pulling up strongly your rope, laden
with another near overflowing question
you form and cast it hither.
“Have you forgiven?”
“The answer dearest, is already in what you drew out
of your well and me, before”.
For, on reflection, that bucket accepts totality,
and any cold water poured into it;
crystal clear, muddied, foul, all.
It seems your work is strenuous.
You straighten up from the arduous pulling task.
For the first time, in a while, raise your head heavenward.
Lost, in the swirling now of shifting cloud
yet rays of sun, arriving at something, lost?
Finally, “Have you forgot?”
“That I can not answer, maybe in time, much.
In your buckets arrayed around the well top
do we see much cleansing refreshment,
to quench our thirst, for answers”.
Seeking your graceful assent I reach out,
with my cup towards that held there now,
and it sparkles with a strengthening sun.
“Let me wash first, with this water
and clear what little remaining, catches in my throat”.
You nod, as ever do I remember, that smile.
And I venture, seeing the sense of this,
meeting of minds now.
And now done your labour, you affirm.
“Below the nourished well,
above the clearing skies”
A gentle breeze blows.