Woman at the Well

The stars shift their weight in the velvet dark,
As the Water-Bearer leaves her shimmering mark.
The Universe reaches down with a hand of light,
Tilting your face toward the mons of the night,
And scolds with a smile, “Look at you, still unsure,
Acting unwanted while being handed the keys to the door.”

The age is turning, the Great Pitcher tips,
Spilling a nectar meant for a searching tongue and parched lips.
She is like Aquarius, fixed and divine,
Turning the ordinary water into living wine.
She doesn’t just carry the vessel of the soul;
She breaks the seal to make the fragments whole.

You come to the well with your thirst and your pride,
With the secrets you’ve tucked so deeply inside,
But leave the old, empty jars on the shelf,
And offer the vessel that is yourself.
No longer a desert, no longer a drought,
She washes the “unwanted” right out of your mouth.

In the salt and press of the skin, in the pulse and rush of the flow,
The living waters are all that you need to know.
With a curve like the Moon and a heat like the Sun,
The woman, the well, and the Divine are one—

Drowning the fire, drinking tides at swell,

As you take in

the woman at the well.