This can is older than dirt. I don’t remember a purchase date, or even the decade. It has always been. With a hint of rust and a few old dings, the vessel stands ready to hold more than hope and a little bit of fertilizer.
Its delicate rose won’t allow any torrents to wash away the weak. The capacity is big enough to build muscles. A long time ago, the handle cover disintegrated so that its wire can callous my hand into remembrance during the dormant winter months.
Instead of kinky soakers or a temperamental sprinkler, I get my “zen” on with this trusty piece of galvanized dependability. Every day I practice carrying water to the outer regions of my lot in life.
Where no hose can reach.