CHORES: FILLING WATER BUCKETS

A rush of concentrated silver slaps

the bucket's emptiness. Wait till the brim

is nearly lapped, then lift and haul.

A full bucket

is a heavy thing. Just one unbalances

reminding symmetry eases the task.

Something flinches in the muscle. Buckets hang heavy

from each hand.

Winter mornings, the buckets are frozen solid.

In one, a black upended mouse

like a glacier-trapped mastadon.

Dumped, the ice domes form a row,

the buckets present emptiness, unquenchable darkness.

Nevertheless,

there is a peacefulness in the silent barn,

a late ray of sunlight creasing the dusty panes,

the stalls thickly bedded,

the water buckets brimming.

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