If you dig deep enough
anywhere on this land
you will eventually hit water.
It is hard to believe this,
looking at the field with its tall grass
and mullein leaves and globes of salsify.
It is so human to want some proof,
to grab the shovel and dig up the earth
so that dirt covers the daisies, the grass.
Then they’re buried and dead, but at least
we know, our shovels wet, that it was true.
Sometimes I wish I had the scalpel
that could cut into to me to find you,
you the river who moves
through my life, clear and continuous,
immeasurable, surprising, unseen.
But what would it prove that I do
not already know: That we die
without water. That the field
is a good place to kneel, to pray.
