She goes by my house every morning,

her pitcher held aloft on her head-

she silently descends the steps to the river.

Lowering her earthen pot she sways it back and forth in the water.

As the water casually and haltingly bubbles into the pot,

her serene face watches, lit up by an inward light.

Next to the steps on a stone wall

sits a hermit.

His eyes are closed and he does not see the light that comes from her,

nor does he see the tiny sparrows flutter in the hot sky.

She fills her pot and hoists it on her head-

her rustling yellow skirt brush my marigolds to the side.

The wet pot drops some glistening wetness over her head.

She walks on.

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