Pail by Carol Barrett

 

Tobias Baur

Pail

From the recesses of the garage, I impulsively pull 

a blue plastic pail, one my daughter used to build 

sand castles at the beach, gulls in a frenzy 

over her emerging masterpiece. It holds 

all the markings of happiness, a thin veneer 

of sand still clinging to the inner wall. 

Summer again. Another scorcher out there, 

107 forecast. I carry my blue vessel to the canal, 

dig heels down to the water’s sheen, as if clogging,

and fill with pleasure sloshing over the rim. 

The ducks quiz me about the venture but 

ultimately paddle nonchalantly downstream,

ripples at their sides. I cart my wet load back 

home, unfold flimsy lawn chair, remove shoes

and socks, dunk blistered feet in the small pool,

toes squirming instead of ducklings, the air

rushing my lungs already a cooler countenance. 

Thus I bring the canal home, grateful for each splash, 

aware the pail may carry the day, trying to make 

of heat just another waffling mood to fashion our brisk footwork in a changing world. © Carol Barrett

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Carol Barrett

Carol Barrett began writing poetry to support the widowed women she was counseling. Her most recent book is READING WIND. Currently living in Oregon, Carol supervises creative dissertations for students at two universities.

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