Poetry
1 min
The Taste of Water
Carol Nolde
We poured water into the pump
worked the creaking handle
up and down, up and down
until pressure built,
forced the arm to press hard
as water rose, then gushed
a fountain from the spout.
Carefully we carried the bucket,
rivulets tracing its sides,
set it in the wooden dry sink.
The dipper we hooked over its edge
drifted to the bottom.
Unlike a chilled glass, the tin rim
imparted its own flavor,
mingled with minerals.
Grandmother relished its taste.
"Nothing like our water."
A child, I thought," Isn't water, water?
Isn't it all the same?"
But no.
Maybe it was the feel of the dipper against the lips,
maybe the sight of the stream that rushed from the spout,
a pure outpouring from the heart of earth
that was ours.
Explore the power of words
Select your story