A Bucket Forgets Its Water

A bucket forgets its water,

its milk, its paint.

Washed out, re-used, it can be washed again.

I admire the amnesia of buckets.

How they are forthright and infinite inside it,

simple of purpose,

how their single seam is as thin of rib as a donkey’s.

A bucket upside down

is almost as useful as upright—

step stool, tool shelf, drum stand, small table for lunch.

A bucket receives and returns all it is given,

holds no grudges, fears,

or regret.

A bucket striking the mop sink rings clearest when empty.

But not one can bray.