Journal of Sacred Work

Within us flows an artesian well of memories. Where attention goes, energy flows. The mind can dip into the well of memory allowing us to drink from the past – the bitter and the sweet.
This well holds so much of our life. Drink from it today.

1952

It’s there, isn’t it, that ancient leaf

baking in the hard sun on a griddle

of earth?

It’s there, isn’t it, that Sierra stream

that wets all those throatless stones.

You alone can drink from

her in an afternoon old as a

a mountain peak, new as now.

The wind rises, pine needles

whisper their gossip & it’s

there, isn’t it? Beneath the intimacy

of eyes, tucked between heartbeats,

folded in thoughtskin, lodged below

a souledge.

As a child, I danced these High Sierras,

dipped a dented cup into a stream, slaked

my thirst, drank again, fished a purple lake,

caught an eleven-inch Rainbow Trout, saw

my father stretch it another inch so he could

brag it was a full foot. All of this beside a fire

whose smoke remembers everything.

They’re there, aren’t they, memories fossilized

in the part of your heart that turned to stone,

the sun baking everything hard and dry except

for the nearby stream.

The water is there, isn’t it? Dip your dented

cup, let the years silk your hand, slake your thirst,

soften stone.

Drink.