by Becky Parker

The well, hidden deep within the cave of the soul
Began to gurgle, and then swell
Pumped by anger, anxiety and hell
Words rushed out like a mighty waterfall, 
Crashing over rocks in a mighty storm
The ground began to seep with the deluge
Until it became a river
Filled with debris and discord
The waterfall was swift and cunning, with no respect.
By the river’s edge was a tree, its roots buried deep, an anchor 
I climbed its branches and hid my face until the storm passed.
My words spent
My heart empty
My throat burned
Inside the tree was a glass of pure water. I drank and was renewed, restored. 
“When peace like a river, attendeth my way; when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well, It is well with my soul.”

Hymn: It is Well with My Soul” Words: Horatio G. Spafford, 1828-1888
                                                Music: Philip P. Bliss, 1838-1876

Becky Parker is married and lives in Tennessee. She enjoys hearing a tall tale, glamping with her husband, DIY projects, historical fiction, gardening, and spending time with her family. She has been published in Spirit Fire Review and The Potato Soup Journal.

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