Wet Season
Wet season
at the well of tears,
bucket and twist rope
short drop & quickly damp.
The well path
a native trail
of time & season,
tolerating no bud
of growth for long.
The well’s stone edge
crumbles, seeping mortar
& hope onto the dust
like frybread crinkles
on kitchen formica.
Wet season at the well
of tears out
the back door
and beyond the grave.
beautiful imagery, a great write.
“like frybread crinkles/ on kitchen formica”
The entire poem is clear as water.
Lovely.