Moisture

I am dried up, like a well.  Dry and dusty, a neglected old deep void; which no longer serves the purpose it was originally intended for.  The walls which were solid, hard and impermeable, have become a disjointed rock staircase for roots seeking both water and a place to secure the trees above.

All they found is the crumbling foothold with nothing to drink.  So.... they too are dying... just as this well appears dead.  It will happen inexorably over time.  Further below the well there is life giving water.   Some things require digging deeper.

Those who dug the well have long since gone.  The trees which they planted; have grown tall, wide and their roots have grown deeper too.  The country folk who lived here, boarded up the well after their house burned down.  They could not abide with living on a place which now represented such tragic loss.  They tore down the cupola which shielded the well from debris. This debris consisted of large branches or smaller twigs and smaller leaves from the older trees. They were dying, as they had been there so very long.

No one had lived here for decades.  The branches that had fallen from these graying trees, had been cut to length and dried for firewood. The same firewood, that had caused the fire which had engulfed this family's home, charring their dreams and leaving their future in ashes.  That is when they had run to the well to get water to put out the fire.  The fire that climbed up the side the house and lifting their hopes and dreams out of reach.

They found the well that had been full that morning and again in the afternoon, was suddenly emptied.  The life saving contents, gone; but where and why now?  The stood helpless, with the only moisture around, was on their faces, that too dried up from the heat and light of the flames which shot higher than the trees, right to the stars or so it seemed.

Now many years later, dark angry clouds were building over that very spot.  There was going to be heavy rain.  Droplets gained speed and size, together they became rivulets, erasing the dust clouds that the swollen drops had made on landing.  The rain came and the wind continued to increase.  The volume was so much there were now streams.

Streams joined and some dry slopes appeared to be river beds.  Underground the dry well no longer appeared dry or empty.  The well began to sardonically fill, not from the top down, but from the bottom up.

The river deep below was rising, wicked by the amount of moisture at the surface.  With the lid on the well, no one would ever know it was at one time empty; nor would they know how vulnerable this source of water might be.  The storm had been intense enough to thunder down and wash away what little lumber had remained.  The elements had erased the last symbol of the deep sadness which scarred both memories and this beautiful place.

 Refreshed, waiting once again to fill the dreams of those who dared to dream.  All that was of any significance was a rough-hewn refuse pile at the foot of the hill.   Like me.  Some cast off piece in a refuse pile.  Dried up.

Burnt out.  A void, starving to be filled and refreshed too.  Alive deep inside, more than what the superficial signs of life allow to be seen.