and ask for it,
the inspiration comes up swift,
quick welling from the deepest pools within me,
sudden flowing, as if struck from rock
But truly
relying on catchment —
all the collected liquid
from the upper hills
coalescing down, bubbling out,
Clearly not a thing conjured
with tricks of thought,
clearly testament to my context,
to the terrain in which I rise,
natural as weeds, as springs,
as love,
from every cradling crevice.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 10, 2016
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