Our backyard sprouted a spring,
uncovered when a tall tree fell,
and from that stream of rivulets
my father built a well.
Into it our hands let slip
a bar of soap, a spoon, a dish,
and even things we never see,
a thought, a hope, a wish.
There, mothers filled the pots,
and stayed to wash their souls with friends,
while children sang a fountain song
in circles, holding hands.
My mind is like that well:
when time decides to stir and rake
those tales of life, they bloom and float
like lilies in a lake.