poem

Springtime in an Old House

 

What started as a trickle

seeping from an unnoticed crack,

when winter snows were warming

and rain-soaked skies were coming,

found a flow-line in my basement,

towards a sump-pump, often fickle,

in a corner towards the back.

 

A fountain-pool of tinkling droplets

quietly collected as I slept.

Soon spring gathered volume and velocity;

by night, its sources gained variety.

Now in my boots and with my broom,

and frantic tinkering with the float,

I’m sweeping water from a moat.

 

Newport, RI  

April 17 , 1996 (Revised 4/02/12)

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