Dry Slake

         I

A root in dry ground
erupts suddenly
with shoot of lush green

Sandy, barren,
not even scent
of water--
how then this foliage
blooming in such desert?

So you came,
have come now
into the world,
your root breaking
dry clods.

Your leaves shade
from burning sun,
your fruit satisfies
with a feast
of kings.

        II

What would I say
if I saw you sitting
across this table
with a coffee?

I would look
into your eyes,
then, racking, weep
“Forgive me, Lord!”
in belly sob explosion

It has been so long,
forgotten,
since I have seen,
as now, in your eyes,
that underground spring,

followed it below
clashing city noise,
listened for its quiet song,
followed wherever it led,
to it’s exit into light,
drunk deeply
of its cool wet
splendour.

I have tried
to quench my thirst
with colas,
my own making,
missed your celestial
satisfying slake,
galactic crystal river rushing,

missed you,
the living water.