The path from porch to well was worn by years
of steady use, although the house could boast
of running water long ago.  The neck
and handle—rough with age–stood hard against
the gentle garden colors just beyond.
…………………………………………..
She watched him haul the buckets, one a side
to keep his balance, and shook her head.  “The need
to carry pails from outdoors in has passed.”
………………………………..
He stopped, a foot atop the lower step,
and smiled at her.  “I suppose that’s true,” he said.
He reached the upper step and sat beside
her, put the pails aside, and held her hand
in his.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Her fingers weaved with his and held.
“It was your father’s pump,” she said.  “I know.”
And then: “Some needs long met can be let go.”
…………………………………………….
“It’s still my father’s pump,” he said.  “That’s why
I carry water even now.  Some needs
long met—those freely, fully met–become
a thing apart, perhaps become a love.”
……………………………………..
She looked at him anew and said, “It’s not
unlike the two of us.”
…………………………………“The water’s cool
and sweet when drawn so deep,” was all he said.

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