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Nights when a full moon lifted past her gable
It fell back through her window and would lie
Announced her. I recall
Her gray apron, the pocked white enamel
Of the brimming bucket, and the treble
Creak of her voice like the pump's handle.
Into the water set out on the table.
Where I have dipped to drink again, to be
Faithful to the admonishment on her cup,
"Remember the Giver" fading off the lip.
The pump's whooping cough, the bucket's clatter
And slow diminuendo as it filled,
She came every morning to draw water
Like an old bat staggering up the field: