Tell me again that story of the woman by the well,
and of the wanderer who asked to drink from the dark water.
On the banks, river stones gleam like cut topaz, like milky agate or
ovals of smooth amber— such contrast against the dark water.
In the kitchen above the shed, the stove comes to life and a kettle
whistles. Tea or coffee grounds swirl, darkening the water.
Squares of paper hang like laundry on an indoor clothesline.
Someone is waiting for prints to batten in trays of dark water.
Small birds migrating from sleep cluster near the windows—
Don’t eat the merest kindness, like bread thrown upon dark water.
Juncos fill the lilac, nearest cover to the stream’s unfrozen section.
Five or six at a time, they flutter down to drink from the dark water.
Who keeps filling this earthen pitcher? Once and for good
I’d like to break it on the hearth and pour out all the dark water.
—Luisa A. Igloria
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.