The well was old, and had long been sealed,
By moss and scrambling eglantine;
But I was thirsty and hot, and come to drink
From the water that I knew was mine.
The lid was stone-weight, and reluctant
To be parted from its starry bonds of moss;
But I planted my feet, and with a shoulder
Broke it free, slid it heavily across.
I dropped a stone into the empty throat,
And began to count, one, two, three..
The faint returning splash replied,
That the well was as deep as me.
But older than me, older still by far;
How many thirsts had it satisfied?
How many lovers had held hands on its rim,
Their wishes into the darkness sighed?
I leaned across the damp crumbling dark,
My eyes adjusting, till I could see,
Far down, my head against a silver coin,
Still rippled by the stone I'd dropped,
Looking back at me.
I let the bucket fall, growing heavier,
As the frayed, uncertain rope unwound;
Besides the cicadas' blank incessancy,
The noon heat smothered every sound.
The windlass paused as the bucket touched;
I breathed thanks, at the limit of my rope.
A few seconds to fill, and then began to haul
The burdening promise of my scope.
In summers of heat, and plenty,
Some wells dry up, their rivers falter.
But the rains of Spring, life's replenishing tears,
Soon fill them, once again, with water.
A green tooth, my well, a verdant stump;
A stone root, with its head a living tree,
In the dry and dusty courtyard of my life,
The space within the heart of me.
These shafts are sunk into the hearts of men,
Oft forgot, abandoned in the chase for goals;
But each one a green well-spring of hope,
Fed by the bedrock sources of their souls.
It is a commonplace, that even on the brightest day,
We may still look up and see the moon;
But did you know, that from the bottom of a well,
You can also see the stars, at noon?
