Carrying Buckets
George Moore
For a long time, there was no water
in the cabin grandfather built
on Lookout Mountain. No water
but an ancient well
with its thick wooden cover and bucket
shot full of holes each season
by some nameless boys who
must have roamed the hills in winter.
We would carry two buckets a quarter mile up
from the deep ravine, along a path
narrow as a deer trail and dark
at night for the imposing trees.
I was boy enough to lift
two buckets full. But not quite there
to haul it up from the bottom of the well
on its old slick rope.
The bottom was a mystery,
so deep the eyes dissolved into the gloom.
The wood lid kept the monsters in
and the wind in the pine from polluting.
It was the longest journey up
at ten, the buckets grew heavier
as night would threaten
something unseen
swooping in when burdened
with responsibilities. More water
night for day, and the soapy trail
out a pipe on the camp kitchen back wall.
It was in the dark I learned
to lift and carry, and how water spills
when you look around
or worry a trail uphill.
About the Author
George Moore’s poetry has been published in The Atlantic, Poetry, North American Review, Colorado Review, and Stand. His collections include Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015) and Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FutureCycle 2016). A finalist for The National Poetry Series and nine Pushcart Prizes, and retired from the University of Colorado, Boulder, he lives with his wife, a Canadian writer, on the south shore of Nova Scotia.