The Well

Long lengthy pulls to raise the bucket, past walls of damp and dark.
Each tug tightening rope to hand
in the silence of brief pause
Water spills, then splashes down into the never seen
Father, hauls with the ease of mature hand
His sweat, sweetened from old spice
Gathers in the grooves of his furrowed face.
Mother is cooking, not seen but smelt.
Flowers rise on the window sill,
a mixed bunch of chosen beauty
Picked alone, in the privacy of dawn.
Where she coasts between fuchsias and magnolia
Unbound from apron and working attire.
I rest under the apple tree, sipping cloudy lemonade
Swirling my finger in the cool pool of citrus
Forming a whirlpool, watching cubed ice twirl.
These young bones admit defeat, yet he throttles on,
An ancient machine maintained by a love unspoken.

It is here, here where the love blossoms-
Where the pool of memory first begins to fill
Where it is clear and unmarred from the
Murkiness of old age- This moment as he strains
From the haul of water, catching my gaze and smiling
Stopping briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow.
As mother bends and blows gently upon heat softened biscuits
Her face a summary of affection.
These are the scent of late summer rain,
The song that envisions the past so vividly it pains
you to allow it to end. It is this normal
Breath of family life that will exhale long
after the lungs have failed.
And as the sun retreats
and father obeys the dinner call
we stream inside, leaving the memory settle
Till they have both long gone
wherein it will rise again like the pail
heavy and full, heavy and full.