My well is empty;
it may not be filled again.
Yet in its emptiness
is revealed the contours,
deep hues,
of its inner walls,
is made plain
all cracks
and pock marks,
all irregularities,
all immovable things,
all brilliance.
Water may overflow its
rim someday again —
ecstasy —
but all that meets our eyes today
will be pressed
into shadow.
Day 4: Wondering about this notion that goodness is most revealed in frailty, not strength.  A lot of my NaPoWriMo poems will probably think on that.  Pretty hard to wrap my head around.