By Andrea Lingle

Desperate as a pail dragging the bottom of a dry well,

Hope has fled the rubble and the muck.

Antipathy, apathy, arrogance, and anger

Rule the clashing ruckus of life.

There is a grumble in the throat of the one who scrubs

And peels the grime from the mirror.

Congealed accumulation obscuring the beating soul

Of a world too weary to notice.

The day blinds like heat off a desert highway.

The white-heat of prosperity scorching the earth.

It smolders: a mumble, a grumble, a glare,

And sickens the water table below.

Avasty-far, brilliant and clear,

Hang the jocular, frolicsome stars.

The one who waits gently, holding a hand and a heart, 

Reflects the pathos of sky.

Walk weightless, speak deeply.

Freshen the springs which flow from the heart

Of the matter and you and us all.

Our well is our life, our body, our soul.