Why does all the sadness, the frustration,
and the deep longing not seep out of my pores
like water from an overflowing basin?
How can it be that this quiet, secret love
does not drip and drip and form streams
and puddles flowing from me along the floor,
out the door, down this street and through
that grove and cover miles until
it reaches the very heel of his foot?
Would he look down and say,
“Ah, here she is.
Do I lift my foot to avoid getting wet?
Do I bend down and drink from this stream?”
"Or do I just collect the liquid love,
bottle it and keep it where I can see it
– just in case.”
(from Long Ago)
- Photo from New Zealand Hot Pools