New water.

My well ran dry and clogged with leaves
from last year’s Fall; for from such great heights I fell
too hard, too fast
for you.
I have heard that peoples and cities may move,
but unlike the love of Johnny and June
which could turn tides that solely follow the moon,
a well is there to stay.
Ours couldn’t shift a current either way.
So now with this gaping hole to my heart, fortified by stone,
I must go in search of new water.
I will pack up my tent by the light of a new day,
and leave only peg holes in the ground so that some lone traveller
may someday come by and see my old well and wonder who,
may have drank from it in some time long since passed.
And walking, life upon my back,
eyes fixed somewhere above the mountains
and below the setting sun, I will find new water.