Monday, February 7, 2011

a poem: The Well

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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