When I’m still,
and ask for it,
the inspiration comes up swift,
quick welling from the deepest pools within me,
sudden flowing, as if struck from rock

But truly
relying on catchment —
all the collected liquid
from the upper hills
coalescing down, bubbling out,

Clearly not a thing conjured
with tricks of thought,
clearly testament to my context,
to the terrain in which I rise,
natural as weeds, as springs,
as love,
from every cradling crevice.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 10, 2016