Pedals to push round or

Is it up and down? Perhaps

It is back and forth. The impulse

Drives the turning motion.

Getting the feet in place could begin

Finding something within. Eddying like

The pedals that shape a new shape.

This was childhood once, and it

Needed no drive, no thought,

Just an impulse to see and be in

Motion with pedals turning.

The cut inward opens.

Out it pours, what?

I fail to see. Fail and fill

It presses a void left.

The cut outward opens too.

In it welts, why?

I come to see. Filled and failed

It numbs the pressed new void.

And the cut, hidden closes.

Strung, sore, tightening the void.

The water had sunk deeper into the well

More pulling on the rope for buckets.

As a child the game was speed. But not for

Those who drank the water year round.

This was my father's well of childhood and

Stones left bleached soap bricks rounded by

Time. Forgotten they have turned into

Broken teeth that fell from the mouth

Of the well. And the water is not safe.

No, neither are the stones.

When it was alive in summer the pulley

Screeched, raising loaded pails tied to rope.

A weathered cross beam bearing the load.

Who was like the beam? My father? Maybe.

Perhaps his mother who saw the well turn.

One year the water was gone. We were gone.

What is there now does not speak. It can't.

What it was and saw has also been bleached.

Whitened by time and sun and time again.