poem

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.