To the well, with buckets, I go.
To the empty, to the hole, with greed, I go.
To the hand that gives, I ask for more.
The fields arch their spines until
their ribs press through the soil.
The orchard offers no more fruit, only birds,
and I pluck one from every bough.
To the stove, with my plate of birds, I go.
To the sky, with my belly howling, I go.
Let the river try to hide.
Let it burrow under the earth.
Let it sing in hidden caverns.
I will find it.
I will build a well.