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.