Got up on a cool morning. Leaned out a window.
No cloud, no wind. Air that flowers held
for awhile. Some dove somewhere.
Been on probation most of my life. And
the rest of my life been condemned. So these moments
count for a lot—peace, you know.
Let the bucket of memory down into the well,
bring it up. Cool, cool minutes. No one
stirring, no plans. Just being there.
This is what the whole thing is about.
Photograph: "Traditional Oaken Bucket in Old Stone Well," by Bidouze Stéphane [sic], (originally in color).
This poem is a long, cool drink of water. I can feel myself relaxing.
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