There resides in the hall,
An old wooden bucket
Very old, very old.


On the Georgia ocean,
A fisherman’s shape
Silhouetted in the dawn.


The old wooden bucket
Held frightened minnows,
Bait for his poles.


When his life had fished enough,
His child remembered
The old wooden bucket.


Cleaned and bleached it
Pure as she as a bride
She placed sugar inside.


From it scooped its sweetness
For many a loving pie
And treats for her family.


She was blind, could no longer see,
The old wooden bucket
Found another birth,


Cleaned and varnished,
It held scraps and scissors,
For her daughter’s quilting colors.


Her daughter now herself gone,
Has passed its loving service down,
That dear old wooden bucket,


In the hallway by a telephone,
A ladder back chair,
Its duty now to let a phone book rest.


The old wooden bucket, my own.