The Well
One encounters first
the dark circle
at the lip of a stone
ring. You peer
and wonder, squint
and inhale the breathy
must of water, deeply
rooted in earth.
It’s all smell from
the top, the aroma
of underground rivers;
you are perched
on the work of so many
years spent digging down
to the drinkable
sweet parts,
the hours of devising
who or what
would excavate the dirt
and spill the liquid
up into our hands.
The stones hold the well
open and are wet with plenty,
soaked with the rising
humidity, droplets give
at your fingertips, run
rivulets until tension pools
them again. Your hands
are greedy for moisture,
for the well,
they reach further into
the opening chasm.
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