Mama didn’t like that little peach fork wand.
She got downright mad when it
Twisted, turned and spun for Dad,
But wouldn’t do a thing for her.
 
Just sat there like any old stick,
No matter how she held it.
But my, it twisted and spun for him,
And I pondered to behold it.
 
“Like this,” and he showed her gentle and slow.
So she took the fork again,
Held it and paced with it, just like him.
Not a bit of spin!
 
Mama glared at the thing then threw it down.
“I don’t believe it nohow,” she cried.
“You can’t find water with a peach fork stick,
And I hope your well turns up dried!”
 
She turned and flounced back up to the house
While yellin’ over her shoulder,
“And don’t you give that wood to our daughter, mind;
I’ll have you know she’s raised proper!
 
Too late.
The wand was already in my hand
As he showed me slow how to hold it,
And how to pace the land.
 
“Give it your loving attention,” he said,
“But let that fork be free
To twist and turn as it wants to,
Not how you want it to be.”
 
So I held the wand with loving attention,
And Lo!  I could feel the tension
Of peach wood turning through palms held tight -  
That stick had come to life!
 
And with every foot I placed on the ground,
That little wand strained and spun around,
Till finally it stopped and came to rest,
Pointing straight down
 
To the marker carefully placed by my dad
From when he’d witched before me.
 
“We’ll drill us a well,” he cried,
“For your wand has verified
What mine had already made known —
That under this land flows water.”