Spring Water

22 Apr 2014

I sat with friends inside a yellow bus.
An old and weary man in charge of rust

drove ahead. Earning money any way
he can. It was his second job today.

"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall..."
The lower numbers, and the trees grew taller.

We reached the ancient dirt and gravel road
Experienced, the old man kindly told

us all about the ancient spring within
this dense and ruined place. And as the limbs

of oak trees scraped the sides of our long ceiling,
the loudness of this sound aroused a feeling

inside of me which poured as cold as spring
water from somewhere underground. A king

existed once before here who ruled the cold.
He said it made him young, but it grew old,

as all things do, I guess. The feeling waned
as the moon which rules the cold today.

But, as the moon, it still returns, and I
return to look upon that road and sigh.

[circa 1988]

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