Thursday, December 1, 2011


The Well

Years ago I stopped by a well
on my way to a place forgotten
as easily as a poem read in eighth grade.
A perfect circle of stones one
laid on top of the other, opposing
contours in snug agreement on

the matter of forgetting which
came first or last. Peering
over the edge amazed at

the depth, the sound of
my breath swallowed up,
leaving me gasping

for cool air rising
from the silver coin
of light at the bottom.

The still pool of my reflection,
wavering image gone still,
floating on water

welled up from vault rock.
A perfect resting place, a
lifetime of good water receding

now before my eyes, exposing
stones wet with the memory
of breath and reflection,

carried away to the place
where water flows and waits
to quench my thirst.

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