Apples in the Well

When a tree shed apples in my well

You were hired to clean it out—

You with shoulders small enough

To reach a sunken pail, scoop crayfish mud,

Clear claws of a mole and a length of chain

From my drinking water.

You who were hired to clean my well

Drowned at last in other depths,

In another year, at a later season,

Where convexity of figure did not count.

You bobbed like an apple in familiarity,

In an element you shared somewhat already.