A Question Poem by Richard Quinby

Was my drinking,
What I fondly call
My disease,
A dam blocking
A river of words?
They do
Seem
To come faster
And clearer now.
Is it just a
Deep dark lake
Released and rushing
Out
Leaving a muddy bottom,
Littered with stumps and trash,
To dry in the hot summer sun?
Or will it reveal
Some hidden spring
Flowing on forever
Pure water sparkling in the sun
Forming small dark pools
Here and there
Feeding parched arid lands?

8/6/05