Bucket of Souls

The phrase which became the title of this poem came to me in the shower as I prepared to go to work one day earlier this week. I had the imagery right away of God holding the bucket, but it wasn't until the following day that I had more than that. As I drove to work the following day, the title popped into my head again. It was at that point that I decided to find some time during the day to be quiet and let my fingers tell me the rest of the story by typing it out. As is typical of what I write in this fashion, the conclusion is as much undecided for me as it might be for the reader. In this specific case, I think it is pretty apparent where this one is headed, given the title!

As I normally do, I include the text of the poem after the video for those who find me unintelligible. You are not alone.

Thanks, Olivia, for encouraging my continued use of this method of delivery of the poems I write. I wish you Hawai'i as your reward. You have earned it ten times over.



Bucket of Souls

I like to imagine God
High up there someplace
we cannot see.

He's got a farmer's hat on
with a big floppy brim
to protect him from the sun.

Out in the fields, which he tends by hand,
there are millions and billions
of little seedlings, growing slowly.

He always has his bucket with him
because you never know when one of the seedlings
is going to need a sip.

It's such a magic occurrence
when a seedling gets a sip;
really more like a tiny droplet, so small is it.

God pulls out the ladle with exactly the right droplet
for the seedling about to sip...
just that one tiny little amount, for just that seedling.

Then, just as the seedling receives it,
the seedling is gone from God's field, at least for now,
and, somewhere on our little hairy ball of dirt and water

a baby is swaddled and held for the first time by a weary mother.