At Jacob’s Well

Living water, he said:

not like a stream,
doggedly rushing down
to a dead sea

not like transient pools after rain,
stagnant and passive
as the sun sucks them dry

not like this well,
cool and deep,
cryptic in darkness

but a spring filling up,
bubbling over,
spilling through everyone.

Can you imagine a man
who would make fountains
of us all?

Yet as he spoke,
I felt the surge
within.

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