Bottles from the Spring

When I was ten
I two-stepped down a country path
To a wooded spring which erupted softly
Near the outskirts of my summertime home.

When my hands were smaller
They touched through that wet transparency
To find that a tadpole
Is quicker than the eye.

When my eyes were young
They watched a wrinkled, brown woman
Overflow large bottles for
Her house was dry and the fresh water free.