Michael Coy Poet Blank verse

Satisfaction, Part 2 0f 4

A Spanish Farmer Goes to Fetch Water

The limestone, thought Gonzalo, was a sponge. 
So soft, the raindrops pocked it. It absorbed 
it all, and slowly bled it back. He looked 
along the path, to where the outcrop rose 
out of the greens and browns of fecund earth, 
its face all cracked and fissured. Morning sun 
lay on the soil, like a considerate 
young lover. But the limestone prominence 
cast cool foreboding shadows on the land, 
a cloak devoid of color. To his left, 
Gonzalo saw Ramon, the blind white mule, 
flicking his ears. A carrot was expected. 
Below, Gonzalo's "parcel" drank the sun, 
the lion-colored corn close to mature. 
His barn was bursting. Almonds, olives, pulses, 
pomegranates, figs. "Thank you, Fuente," 
slipped from his lips, unbidden. Off he set, 
his wooden bucket swinging, for the crag. 
He loved the ritual of his morning trip.

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Darren White March 25, 2017 at 9:05 AM And that opposed to this... What is it we chase? Eternal satisfaction, some sort of happiness that we somehow think we have a right to? Or this.. Having enough, and thanking for what you have? Darren White March 25, 2017 at 9:17 AM All our wells are running dry, but we are closing our eyes to it, we are pretending it doesn't happen. We scream and do our rain dances, only we call it different names. Michael Coy March 25, 2017 at 9:08 AM And what if, one day, the well runs dry?