Hand over hand
Day after day
year after year
I stood by the well
and lowered my bucket into the depths
I’d watch it go deep out of sight
until I felt the rope begin to tug with
the weight of everything that
replaced the emptiness that minutes ago
filled the bucket
Then hand over hand
I would pull the bucket up from the deep
out of the dark
and each time as it inched into the light
I would stand slack-jawed in amazement
at the overflowing treasure
that dripped over its brim
Words
Pictures
Colors
Ideas
They all breathed fire and fancy
as they danced and twirled
and rearranged themselves
into impossible sequences
of beauty and wonder
But now I lower my bucket
into that same well
until I hear the clank as it hits dusty bottom
And I wonder how such depths
become so dry and depleted
I miss the anticipation of discovering
what mysteries each bucket held
I miss the heat and the heart of the fire
And I long ago stopped hoping
anyone would understand
the longing and grief
inspired by an empty bucket
But the bottom line is that
a thing need not be understood
in order to be felt.
