Saturday, July 11, 2009
Old Bucket: A Saturday Poem
Old Bucket
All my life I’ve carried things.
So many falls so many springs.
Frosty mornings, cooler eves.
Boots below me kicking leaves.
Crooked handle, dented in.
Squeaks against the rusted tin.
Target practice, I’ve been there.
Years in barns with not a care.
Rediscovered, then re-used.
Refilled, hammered, and abused.
From this truth I have rebelled.
I’ve carried nothing. I was held.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009
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2 comments:
That's nice.
I really like this poem. I stalked you here from your Amazon comment on a C.S. Lewis book, Experiment in Criticism--pretty interesting stuff.
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