On the Way to the Well

All these women I meet on the way to well - are they distractions or the reason I travel in the first place? We who forgot our bucket in a glade, who are yet writing her name on the water tower's side. I remember making love to you in the forest, your hands not on my back or shoulders but digging into the humus on which we came together. Perhaps roots are the sky another way or is my ongoing confusion not confusion at all but wisdom cheerfully consigning itself to the lowest rung on the ladder? Donning work gloves, reading John's Gospel, wondering what she looks like in three - not two - dimensions. Under the weight of so many metaphors and analogies and euphemisms - aka wordiness - it can be hard to remember that it's okay to make others happy, to let the little things go, and to fill and be filled by the world's salty gushing. Yes, I know, in December the rivers darken and maple leaves freeze in the gutter. Won't you come closer so I can decorate you and eat the distance between us? You for whom travel is both permissible and kind? Tell me again you will get on your knees. And can you hear across the miles my warming hymns of praise?