The Well

The Muse

in her dark habit,

trim-waisted,

wades into deep water.

The spring where she

will fill her pitcher to the brim

wells out

below the lake's surface, among

papyrus, where a stream

enters the lake and is crossed

by the bridge on which I stand.

She stoops

to gently dip and deep enough.

Her face resembles

the face of the young actress who played

Miss Annie Sullivan, she who

spelled the word 'water' into the palm

of Helen Keller, opening

the doors of the world.

In the baroque park,

transformed as I neared the water

to Valentines, a place of origin,

I stand on a bridge of one span

and see this calm act, this gathering up

of life, of spring water

and the Muse gliding then

in her barge without sails, without

oars or motor, across

the dark lake, and I know

no interpretation of these mysteries

although I know she is the Muse

and that the humble

tributary of Roding is

one with Alpheus, the god who as a river

flowed through the salt sea to his love's well

so that my heart leaps

in wonder.

Cold, fresh, deep, I feel the word water

spelled in my left palm.