Divine the internal river, flowing inside your praise.
Sense it, man, a buried gusher, black as oil in the vein.

But first, this small matter of access:
You must tap the source with your own hands.
Tell me, why is the pickaxe still in your belt?

Such is the ancient way of prayer:
the best water is found only by the thirsty,
with hands and hearts like claws.

Yes, springs the well eternal, I have even more than that.
This longing is blessed too, if it leads me to you.


View the painting that inspired the poem.

July 20, 2018 — Alexandra Hunter
Tags: poetry