Journey to the Center

Every time the bucket went walking

The forest would part its folds

And the top that was the sun would tilt

And throw its light under the belly of the leaves.


Each slat of the bucket was sharpened

With reflective anticipation

As it waddled on a well worn groove,

The sky inside it sloshing and smoothing


The stones from the bucket’s empty heart.

With a sappy smile on its stupid face

A bucket hiking into the forest alone, imagining

A wishing well into which no bucket had plunged.