Take a moment,
he said, and drink from
this spring —

first you have to pump
the handle a few times
and then it’s going to come out fast

so be ready to put your hand
under the spout and catch a handful
of the water, then

hold it to your mouth
and drink — be careful, it’s going
to be cold, colder than what we get

from the tap, cold as snow almost,
just drink it and it will hurt your teeth
a bit but it’ll be worth it.

It was.  It was, and although
the sweat had run down
from under my headband

since we’d started, I forgot about that
and all the hard, sulky work of mowing
and raking four and one half acres

in no time as I pumped and drank
handful after handful until he stopped me
and said, it’ll be here when you need it,

there’s no reason to overdo it,
it was here before we were, it’ll be here
after us, you can always come back.

I do not know it the pump’s still there
but the spring is still, I trust, because
when he spoke of things like that,

he usually told the truth, I could trust him
when it came to things that weren’t
about what was between us, especially when I was thirsty

or hot or lazy; anytime, really,
I wasn’t able to take care of myself.
It’s good that I have outgrown that.