bucket

I water my plants on the back deck

with a bucket. From inside, I fill what is empty

with cool water and give to my plants

the drink of life and I swear I can

hear them sigh and stretch their leaves

and limbs toward the sun, brilliant greens reaching

upward to the sapphire sky. I return the bucket,

empty, to its quiet corner and I wonder if I

could do the same, day after day, for all

my life. Could I fill my heart in the morning

with the water of life and without a

word, pour myself empty upon those

around me, leaving not a drop for tomorrow,

secure in the knowledge that somehow,

someway, my bucket will be filled again,

and I will know not to hoard my filling,

but to give of what I've been given. This is my

hope; to be like my bucket.