The Spring

by Michael Herrington

Puffs of insignificant dust

Heeling obediently to her—

Some sticking,

Some settling,

All mirroring her (e)motions

An arid water pot

Sagging her shoulders—

A light load,

Helpless to balance the scale

Burdened by her soul.

Knotted worn stone

Supporting a weary nomad—

An impartial oasis,

A timeless testimony

For all who come to draw.

An arid water pot

Still sitting.

A deep well

Undisturbed.

Puffs of dust

Flying high and free.

The scale

Washed away.

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