Filling a bucket

I filled bucket
not long ago.
In a rush
I needed that bucket fast.
It was a single letter
in a novel I had planned.
It was a draft of air
in a windstorm I was stirring.
It had no right to take so long to fill.

Half-way full I knew it would never finish.
A fiendish illusion had grow real -
water flowed up into the faucet to confound me.
It splashed and roiled merrily on
but got no fuller.

It was playing a game -
it would be no one's thoughtless pawn
no one's fool.
Deep down in that well
those laughing liquid curtains fell
so I propped me up on my elbows
and watched it fill.