The Parable of the Pail

I went down one ordinary evening Empty with a pail of iron-brown and verdigris To where the sands reach down into the deep The old pool at the edge of the woods Having just recalled my thirst.

The pail was old and round and dark within. Its handle creaked and teetered in the going Going down the steep and narrow wooded path. The pail was round, it was capacious. The quiet waters slipped right in.

Singular and true upon the darkling shore The vessel stood, reposed. The wind was idle, The night was warm and still, The waters still and quiet. And on its dark round face Reclined a perfect image of the moon.

The hour was late and so I turned to reascend The steep and brambled path. The heavy pail It creaked and teetered in the going. The brimming pail It tipped and see-sawed in the walking. Its brimming waters slipped and slipped right out.

And when I reached my home, I lit a taper And held the bucket to its meager light To see what I had got. My thirst forgotten, There I did behold a photograph of empty Rounded dark within, of iron-brown and verdigris.