The Bucket

 

S/HE walked to the car with a bucket in hand.
Fill your bucket full.  It was never made for sand.
She put it on the floor behind the driver's side
and tucked her briefcase near it to stabilize its ride.
The traffic flow was heavy, so she turned the music loud, 
maneuvering with skill, she raced through the crowd.
Her mind never stilled as she traveled down the lane
turning left then right, her worries the refrain:
The lawn is brown; the heat is holding.
The market dropped and chipped the molding.
The spot on her arm had surely grown.
That caused alarm; she dialed her phone.
S/He pulled into the driveway and opened up the door
then bent and reached behind her for the bucket on the floor.
She carried it with deftness and set it down with pain
Some days it seemed so heavy; she wished that it would rain.
Then she sat down to dinner, her worries the refrain:
The lawn is brown; the heat is holding.
The market dropped and chipped the molding.
The spot on her arm had surely grown.
That caused alarm; she dialed her phone.
She had long stopped checking the content in
 her pail, but she knew it was full, so she must have done well.
So daily she did carry a bucket full of gold and soft flowing rain
and  the cure for feeling old, and she sat it on the floor,
 and she placed it on a shelf
never growing never knowing that her bucket was herself.