There was a young woman
Who sat by a well for years, ever scanning
The horizon for dust clouds drifting with
The approach of thirsty travellers.
She’d scoop up fresh water
From the deep, cool well
And pour it in their jugs
With her thin, strong arms.
Smiling, she’d send them on their way,
Brushing off their thanks
Like the drops of water
Trickling down her arms.
Ready and eager to help
She waited through the heat of the day;
Wiping away drops of sweat from
Her too-soon sun-wrinkled brow.
And if someone approached the well
With dry, empty hands
She’d lend them her own jug,
Trusting in the stranger’s word.
Sometimes it was soon returned;
Other times, the wait was long
And fruitless, yet she kept her post,
Filling other people’s buckets
With nothing to contain her own water–
Unable to quench her thirst,
Unable to stop pouring life into others–
Yet too weak to seek a vessel of her own.
How long until the heat overcomes her?
Until she crumples by the well
And her dehydrated heart stops beating
Till motionless at last, she returns to dust?
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