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The Bucket Old as the dirt that packs its seams, its burnish has long since wearied. Even the rising of a resurrecting sun can barely coax a gleam, although reds and oranges translate to a bit of glint on its pocket surface. It hangs by a wire on a post that lives out its remaining days, an unwitting teller of time. Two roan horses and a mule wait by the bucket, noses nudging it, eager for the morning routine. Suddenly, they recognize the footsteps of the stable boy, watch him approach with downcast eyes and tousled hair. Ears lop and twitch as the bucket is taken by its overburdened bail. Ears project forward as they perceive the whispering swish of oats, sticky with molasses, being scooped, the sound changing as the bucket fills. Ears back, they jostle for their places at the manger, chewing the wonderful mixture, eyes half-closed as though in prayer to the Giver of all grain. As late afternoon calls in its debts, the stabler fills the bucket with water and forgets, his mind on the tavern— the press and pull of it reach irresistibly into his lonely world. With the folding of the dark sky, the bucket, old as the dirt that packs its seams, has become a thing of beauty as it proudly cradles a crescent moon and reflects a bucketful of stars from The Milky Way |
Additional Notes:
Published first, maybe, 2004 on TPL--now dusted off, stood on its feet, with a pair of new shoes, is The Bucket.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2015-02-18 22:43:43
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Only you could make an old bucket beautiful. As always you take me there. The the farm, to the horses, to the mule,to the stable hand that longs for the tavern and the maidens within. That an old bucket that can't even get a light beam to gleam its surface yet in the end cradles a crescent moon and reflect a million stars. How incredibly beautiful. You made my evening. Thank You