Sweetwater Seasons

Ron Koppelberger

Sweetwater Seasons

Katherine Sunday twisted and turned the handle as the gray bucket dipped lower and lower into the well. She was clothed and sorted by the fortunes of the Sunday legacy, lace edges and tresses of flame. She cast a narrow shadow against the twilight horizon and if one were to trespass on the taboo of orange gild and beautiful silhouette, the twilight might have sighed in exasperation and sweetwater taboo.
Katherine completed the turn of the leaver with a silent consent to the asylum of fresh sated thirst and desert abandon. The rolling plains unfurled a distance beyond the spring and tiny grass mud hewn cottage. A cry for the service of rain and great geysers of moisture, a cry for the cool seed of tender rose bloom and lush jungle sash, in contrasting desires the plains ached for change and sweet water currents.
Katherine rolled up the taunt length of rope in slow easy turns and whispering anticipation. The taste of what’s real and worn by the evanescent temper of angels and racing will, in slow degrees of chance, a fated pull at the rope and the sustenance of life. The will to Eden and sand to verdant vistas, to tall pine and wild dandelion blossom all in the gray metal conveyer of nourishment, of clear, cool love for the land and mankind, water in wishes and wonder. She touched the metal banded bucket and smiled in tender alliance with the gift of life, the sweetwater miracle. Katherine waited in pause and prayer, “Thank-God,” she prayed as she dipped the tip of her finger into the bucket, “Thank-God.” The rare wine the sweet virginal fact. The bead of well water fell from the tip of her finger
And dust, desert dust sighed and breathed in explosions of wont, a need in dry riverbeds made fast and rushing. The desert assured the reception, the shape of release unbound. She delivered the birth of a garden as the water spread to the distant horizons and the secret soils beneath. A vista of suspiring tangled choice, Sweetwater wilds and the tide in ebb with the heartbeat of desert passion, the mossy measure of time, the blood of eager saints in raging desires and rushing birth. Just a touch, a drop of water borne by the tears of a maiden in silent sweetwater seasons.