Each day is spent
At a well with a silvery cedar bucket
On a scraggly strand of rope.
As you cast down your line,
You lean into the well,
Hoping to hear the splash
Of wood on water.
You hear nothing.
The arid wind swims through your hair,
Cracks your tender lips,
And howls dryly. You fish
For a penny in your pocket
And clench the coin
With a single wish for moisture;
Just a drop to wet your tongue.
Tossing your coin, you hear
The kerplunk of liquid too deep to reach.
You poke your head
Into the clammy darkness
And nearly fall. But strangely
You chuckle. Your throaty laughter
Echoes into the well, returning
In a raspy bass voice
Your ears have grown too accustomed to.
He Who Wanders 