It's been 3 years since I posted this poem on"Invalid's Workshop" and now it's 11 p.m. and I've just come back from working on Della's pump again. This time, I had to run a hose across the field from my well to her plumbing so she could shower and flush etc. --fell down climbing over a wire fence and hurt myself! I then gave her phone numbers to call in the morning. I no longer solve submersible pump problems in the dark. That was a recreation for a younger version of me. But I was reminded of what it means to be a rural neighbor in this world and decided to repost the poem before the country is entirely paved and ruled by Home Owners' Associations.
His old mother's well quit
Quite in the dark.
Condenser, relay,
Romex rusted under weeds.
Here we chose our places
And our deeds--
Useful under stars, black trees,
Probing earth for logic
On our knees.
