a new well

with bucket in hand,
the sun
a yellow egg just rising
over patches of green
on a ragged brown hill,
you lean towards
the well, pushing
your tired legs,
and dry bones forward.
the well is dry.
the bucket strikes
the bottom
and sends you a loud
clang of metal onto stone.
it's the bluest sky
you've ever seen.
not a wisp of white.
how easy it is
to let things go
and find a different
way to live your life.