i’m trying
to express water
with lines.
i’m trying
to express image
with words.
i cannot
draw
well so
trying
to have another
draw for me.
in central
new york
many years
ago
there was an
old well
in a field.
i would pedal
my bicycle
near it.
sometimes
i would get off
the bike,
walk down a
small culvert
into the field,
walk over to
the well.
quietly,
only the sound
of insect
and wind,
i would look
into it.
there was
no way
to draw water
from the well,
no bucket,
no pulley.
i would toss
small rocks
into it,
bits of thick
dried hay.
i would place
my hand
over the
black mouth
of the well
and drop
these solid objects
into it.
instantly,
they would
disappear.
i would lean
over,
not too
far,
trying
to see inside.
trying
to hear.
trying
to understand
if there was
water
still
inside.
quiet,
only insects
and wind.
i never once
heard the small stone
strike water.
never heard it
strike dirt.
down there
in the black,
i do not know
what became
of those small stones,
those thick bits
of matted hay.
i cannot
properly convey
the way i
want the lines
to move,
to invoke
the motion and
texture of
water.
the artist
gets frustrated
with me,
i reject
drawing
after drawing.
down
in the black,
far from
the reach of
sun,
i can see
the water
rippling,
fine lines
spiraling out
until they
disappear.
quiet,
only insects
and wind.
only an old
abandoned
well.
only my
youthful body,
walking back
through
a Summer field,
down and then
up
a small culvert,
back again
on a bicycle.
the fine
lines
of our
lives,
spiraling
out.
zakschafer.com 