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.

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