The Sound of the Bucket
(for the woman at the well)

At four each day, when shadows bend,
She takes the path the trees defend.
A pail in hand, her pace is slow—
She knows each stone the roots outgrow.

No bell, no clock commands her feet,
Just silence folding down the street.
She walks as though the world is still,
Drawn by thirst, by need, by will.

The well is worn, the stones are slick,
The rope is frayed, the air is thick.
But with a grace that time can’t steal,
She drops the bucket, wood and steel.

It sings—a soft, descending song,
Of days endured, of years so long.
And when it strikes the surface deep,
The sound is sharp enough to weep.

She waits. The stillness fills her eyes,
Like prayers that never ask the skies.
Then hand on crank, she brings it home,
The water caught in frothy foam.

No one sees, but still she goes,
With aching joints and wintered toes.
For memory’s weight is hard to bear,
And he once met her daily there.

The bucket groans, the handle turns,
The soul beneath the silence yearns.
And though the well grows dark and wide,
She finds him in the quiet tide.

At four each day, she walks again,
Through light and wind, through sun and rain.
Not just for water, not for thirst—
But for the sound. For what came first.

For His Honor and Glory
MarkWaldrop 

Jhn 4:11  The woman saith unto him, Sir, thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep: from whence then hast thou that living water?