But the miracle had come
simply from allowing yourself to know
that this time you had found it,
that some stranger appearing
from far inside you,
had decided not to walk past it anymore;
the miracle had come in the kneeling to drink
and the prayer you said,
and the first tears you shed
and the memories you held
and the realization that
in this silence you no longer
had to keep your eyes and ears
averted from the place
that could save you,
and that you had the strength
at last to let go of that
thirsty, unhappy, dust laden pilgrim-self
that brought you here,
walking with her bent back,
her bowed head
and her careful explanations.
No, the miracle had already happened
before you stood up,
shook off the dust
and walked along the road beyond the well,
out of the desert and on,
toward the mountain,
as if home again,
as if you deserved
everything you had loved all along,
as if just remembering
the taste of that clear cool spring
could lift up your face to the morning light
and set you free.
*Picture credit here.
