The Well

I dip from my well whenever I am lonely I pull from this well every time I feel lost It is my secured secret hiding place only Excavating this hole came with a high cost It was hand-dug; covered with an old wood plank The water is now putrid and too moldy to drink It was my grandpapa’s well; I have him to thank I pour in a bottle of bleach to help cover the stink I don’t pull it to drink it; it’s not for consumption I use it on my green garden; especially the plants I like knowing that it is still in prime operation It kills the crawling pests; including the fire ants My well is a treasure trove of long-gone memories Ten generations relied on the spring water it gave I will not fill it in; It has seen tragedies and victories It was dug with human labor by long-ago slaves My well knows my voice; yet, will not make a sound I look down its stony neck for creative inspiration To me, it is more than just a dark hole in the ground It stands on hard-fought land for future generations