I am empty.

I am dry, cracked, thirsty.

I tie the rope to the handle of my pail…

Its wooden planks worn, warped and weathered.

I grasp the handle, and turn the crank lower… lower… lower.

Cool, cool water.  Crisp and clear.  Purifying and precious.

I turn the crank again… higher… higher… higher.

Splashing away the blemishes in my heart.

I wipe the wet from my eyes.