From the confines of her bed she hears
The dripping drops from the rain
That has come--
Hollow-sounding drops, echoing from the walls of the bucket,
Falling from the eave above her window,
Containing themselves in the bucket as a fluid mass, waiting,
Marking time endlessly, yet bearing up encapsulated
In the confines of the infinite moment--
A muted sound, drumming the
Certainty of the end...
And after she is lulled, stranded in the
Certainty of the end...
And after she is lulled, stranded in the
Limbo of the dripping drops,
The bucket brims over, spilling
Its unseeded water in sheer and shining glazed cascades
Onto the ground...
Onto her nearby garden.
A death is a planting.
That's so lovely, Deb. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Maeve.
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