The Bucket Poem by James McLain
The Bucket
I can't help but to grow even a little more so.
As I watch her.
Walking up the hill.
And well, she struggles.
The leather bucket was passed down,
before hand too hand.
To each when it was last full and quite heavy.
Coming down now through the middle on top
of her head, is a different challenge.
Each hand holds the bucket.
Her waist is as thin as a reed.
She wastes none I can see, on the ground.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 12:54:59 PM # 1.0.0.1119
