The wise woman bends a broken knee
Her ewer goes deep into the clear river
A shiver
From the cold fingertips to the snow of her hair
All tangled with voices and
swallowed bits of oceans and
muffled out cracks and
internal bruising and
the light that they give off
the dreadlocks she will never part with.
She approaches the crowd that watches
Someone bathe in the cold waters.
She fills which cups are still upright
Nods at a ‘thank you’ or two
And wipes a tired eye
as she fills her own with wine.
Water’s to drink
And youth is to behold.