A poem about an antique oaken bucket my wife and I purchased.

Today my wife and I bought an antique
oaken bucket that once serviced a well-
a commonplace item then, now unique.
Centuries old, what stories it might tell.

Perhaps it hung over a well at some farm,
providing cool water to quench farmhands’
midday thirst. To us that’s part of its charm,
wondering whether it helped cultivate lands.

Or maybe it drew water from a well placed
in the center of town square, where housewives
gathered fresh water and gossip as they faced
a new day, both essential in their humdrum lives.

With its curved, wooden sections held tightly
in place with two metal bands and a strip
of metal reinforcing its wooden handle, rightly
it once would’ve drawn water with barely a drip.

Time and hard use have left their mark. The oak
sides now are nicked and gouged, the metal bands
thinned and loosened. Yet these blemishes provoke
admiration, for that’s what this bucket demands.