the well

I was taught to divine for water,
walking the earth and seeing with the eyes of my feet.
Here, a small stream.
And here, a rush,
the witching rods cross—
gallons per minute flow unseen beneath my feet
in an otherwise unremarkable corner of a field.

December has opened a fresh well of grief.
broad and deep.

In the wind through the bare winter trees—
In the patter of snow on fallen leaves—
In the thrum of water below the earth—
the whisper of your name.

Over and over I dip down into the cool, dark waters
and drink.

Where are you in your grief now? Do you go looking for it? Do you drink of it?