Hot Spring

Well, we can depend
on the constant flow
of water out of the spigot

In these modern times
nails lined with dirt
hold nothing
together

And so few knew
cleansing could be so
bone-chilling,
the cold C
sterilizes me
still
leaving
a residue of salt
inside the deepest wounds

For hope was on the other side

The H begins at the same
temperature
If we wait
sometimes longer than others,
immersed in it,
the degree of Hope rises
from tip to tip,
from pipe to vein

Although, we all know
one drop
was never enough
to remove the stains
or replenish the well
completely
and for good

it was always our turn
of the faucet,
our choice
from which side
to draw
out from some hidden
seeming eternal source.



Artwork by Károly Patkó (1895-1941), 'Woman washing herself' c. 1931 in Public domain.