Denied of the Well

At noon on the path,
no footprints ever explain
why the bucket's mouth
is stuffed to the rim with dust,
while the rope swings loose below.

In daylight's brief glint,
silver coins lie, unwetted—
the sun holds them still,
threading gold on waterline
until darkness pockets them.

The watchman is gone,
his coat waits upon the hook,
the latch still holds fast—
perhaps the wind borrowed hands,
or the hinges may recall.

The well pool is stained
with a stranger's face
looking back at us—
its pale mouth opens to ours;
we blame the moon's ownership.

All night, worries knot
the rope into little fists—
at dawn each hand grabs
a firm hold, with warm bare palms,
to haul buckets in our sleep.

We brought a blue jar
the potter promised would last—
moss grew over it,
greening the virgin new ribs,
until they forgot they came.

Water leaked from pool,
entered windows, lifted bed—
still, no cup was filled,
the current bore each vessel
over the surface below.

The rope line ended
three hand spans short from the dark—
To increase its span
we added sleeves, legs and hair,
but we can't tie the right knots.

Someone had fitted a lid
over the well top
with a bright polished mirror—
we can't see our reflection
to spring the wellness within.

Night loosens one star
from the well mouth left ajar—
the planets draw back,
defying gravity's pull,
the buckets rise weightless, dry.

We lower a bell
into the well before dawn—
startled it rings, dings,
but the sounds bash the wet walls
to never ripple within.

At the lowest stone
a woman's hair slowly drifts
over, careful hands—
closing the lid without sound
her mouth lies underwater.

As the well deepens
farther into its shadow
thirst gives its answer—
not in water, not in voice—
but with the churn of windlass.

angstanxietybluechangehopetanka

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