Bitter Salt Diamonds

The middle part of this appeared here earlier as Coming to Rest.

I would not seem a weeping woman, weak
Though sick or stricken, none will see me grieve.
No rain falls here, no salt upon my cheek
It's better so-- or so I once believed.

Trees spread shade
by the bittersalt well
who kneels, bends, drinks
finds it sweet.

What callous heart would gallant tears refuse?
What fearful soul would hide its grief from light?
I wear my liquid diamonds gladly now,
Though weeping woman, I do not seem weak.