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.