On the far perimeter of his father’s old farm
he discovers an old well’s pump and faucet.
He is a professor, and the land, agrestal
and wild, is now his. Inherited, like his
faulty heart that aches, like his rheumatic
joints. The old pump is out down the two
overgrown ruts of what was once a road.
Through the cluster of dogwoods that rise
over the dusty earth like desert Bedouins.
They are turning in the dry summer wind,
shimmering platinum. Out of curiosity,
he pumps the handle, which is rusted,
and water sputters and spatters forth.
The color of iron ore, at first,
but soon it grows clearer and
clearer, lucent in the hot sun.