Grateful for this storied well
Dug by tribal ancestors:
Plentiful and cool, the water slakes
Parched throats.
Hidden underground:
Found by chance,
Fed by rain, filtered in earth,
Protected from strangers, but
Urgent for neighbors,
Always tame,
Always the same.
How deep does it go ?
How long can it last?
No one knows. No one asks.
With morning light, we fill
Our jars with water to
Quench village thirst; smile and nod to
Well known faces,
Staid but safe
Practice familiar traditions — Trumpet —
‘So what’ —
Soft then louder,
Over and over.
Obsessed with survival, we
Barter goodness for tomorrow;
Tense with hope,
We bet on fortune,
Heavy with debt.
Then one day, drawing fresh water,
Brown eyes meet yours,
Face to face.
Questions asked and answered,
Person to person,
Unlike other greetings.
Suddenly feeling seen,
Through a humble request
Shame and inner pain
Dissolve in circumstance.
The looking glass image used to
Deflect disgrace,
Wiped clean to unveil
A fragile face
Thirsting for life.
The person who loves you
Dares be vulnerable with you
Frees hearts of home made fears,
Shows by giving
The joy of living.
Inspires escape from abject slavery
To cross rambling rivers,
And rugged deserts —
To win a promise.
Reimagine whole new worlds,
Or pursue forgotten dreams,
Resurrect the challenge to stay
Open and fully human.
In this demented world,
Old wells dry up,
Outsiders get beaten,
Rarely forgiven.
Old habits die hard until
Harvests ripen.
So pay close attention or
Miss the divine interventions
To satisfy thirst
And christen you —
Beloved.
THH
3-8-26
Thoughts Have Hands 