There are all these
Interruptions, intrusions
Casting shadows
On branching lines of thought.

But the compressing insulation
Of blue-gray fog
Frees us for a moment
From the all-too-much.

These seasons speed
Shorter increments of time,
And it is never enough
For this:

A wooden bucket,
Worn smooth
By so many
Centuries and hands;

A sharpness on the tongue,
Clarity of thirst —
Cold water,
Words from the wire.

But know:
Though, through circumstance
Or willingness,
We may linger in stolen seconds,

Gazing, desperate,
To where it waits
Upon the shelf,

If our faith
In its usefulness —
Its presence —
Does not falter,

Stretching fingertips of thought
Might reach it.
Feathers gather –
A wing to brush away busy dust.

In remembering
To seek it,
We can quench
This thirst again.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

One response to “Thirsty”

  1. jannie funster says :

    This is awesomely great!

    I was thinking of wooden buckets just a few days ago, as I filled my plastic one to mop the kitchen floor. Prairie ladies probably never knew just how beautiful their buckets were.

    And should they have been able to read this poem, they’d be blown away by your images. And by our words from the wire.

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