You brought the bucket, I see.

And cups.

Thank you.

Thank you.

We are so thirsty here,

this maple and I,

in soil harsh

for us trees:

fissured clay on

a parched August knoll,

where our roots suck air

and shrivel.

Oh, yes.

Pour on us.

Quiet our water cries,

hiccoughs of xylem,

sighs of smoky stomata

that exhale forests,

worlds aflame and

blowing our way.

We’re dry,

so dry.

Dehydrated by longing,

tinder for lightning,

our shrunken cells wait

to gulp You,

Sluice of heaven.

Oh, water us.

 

Cheryl Bostrom, Water Cries

“O God . . .earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” Psalm 63:1

“If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me . . . streams of living water will flow from within him.” John 7:37-38

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