It’s tough work, drawing enough of yourself
up from the well
that has grown brambles and roses all over
to prevent anyone snatching it away.
No longer can an echo bring up droplets from its depths
to sprinkle as greetings
when greeting is the last thing you want to do.
Even the sun offering its hand
can sway you only so much,
but the moon is the one who whispers to you
urging the water inside
to be spilt only when necessary
and fully charged by its silver.