"The Well," A Poetry Post

Dear God,
I am a well.

Here the children
used to come and
scoop
at the rim to
drink their cooling fill.

But time has passed.

Many have
dipped in their ladles
to swallow down
the sweetness from
Your deep table.

But time has passed.

Buckets have been
turned down and lifted full
to feed the parched crops,
to cook the house dinners,
to wash the very souls of
the people.

But time has passed.

The water level has
gone, gone, gone,
far down to a
mite shimmer,
just enough to get a
toe wet.

And I am a well,
I know it.

Here with no water,
no cupped hands,
no ladles,
no buckets,
I am a well and
I know it.

So,
I cannot be surprised that
you have decided to
break up the whole structure,
haul out the old bricks,
thrust in a large bit and
tear up the inside,
pierce through the hard floor and
tear through the places
where there used to be glory.

If I am a well,
and there will ever be water again,
You and I know...

You've got to dig the
whole thing
over.

-T. D. James-Moss