Well at the End of the Wood

The water’s clean and cold 
and good, pulled straight up 
from a lower spring. 

They sing as they go, 
not the high princess ah-ah-ah 
of their former selves,

but a low high-ho of work 
well done and freedom won 
and stories spun, 

laced in laughter and woven
-whim’d through the trees. 
They squeeze their eyes 

shut and seize the day 
in joyful sway and grateful 
hum. Another one, well done.  

::

In November, we poem. Sometimes four days in one.