The empty pail some call it
a bucket spoke to me of failing
to hold the water entrusted to it.
The coat of mail hung on a hook
after the battle began to wail
crying the cry of peacefulness.
The brown sweater the shade of fall
pawing through drawers for someone
to cover with wool, to keep wise
and warm throughout the still season
the heart beating inside no threat
to cold outside or snow falling.
The dog on the trail was never lost
she understood the sign language
in the ceaseless back-n-forth that
decorated the hills with ghostly white.
We gaze over the ridges and dart
around each turn as it is revealed.
The words to say on any particular
day arise like fog, like disappearing
dew on a morning of hardly caring.
The servant carries a cup of drink
from the east end of the garden
to where we sit in an unthinking circle.