I watch her release and draw again,
scattering sand down wet walls
as she leans over mortared stones
as far as she can reach,
a dark rope wrings
through the pulley wheel,
slips on drips and damps
her palms as she pulls
and strains at the weight,
the twisted twine is frayed
and when it snaps perhaps
then I will understand
what thirst goes unquenched
by a bucket never tipped.
No comments:
Post a Comment