Tuesday Poem: On A Random Afternoon

 

                                                                              Andrew Wyeth

Like The Empty Bucket

We dream of water.

Like the cup set down to dry,

we yearn to be filled.

Long to listen as 

the spigot plays

its musical notes on

the cistern’s surface,

a song that gurgles

and tickles, sure as

the coursing of blood

in our arteries, soon as

we stop listening

to everything else. 

Water linking everything

together: springs and 

creeks, streams and 

rivers, all current-driven 

bodies pushing out 

to the ocean, that briny 

embracing magnitude 

we ache to sit beside, 

wade into, float 

upon, fathom.