Does the water flow in copper slivers,
tasting iron ore in rusty sweetness?
Maybe in the form of waking rivers,
can the wishing well regain its blueness.

Maybe in the murky winter window,
can the seeing eye retain its powers,
unafraid to look upon the widow,
unafraid to count the venom’s hours.

If it can be said of autumn’s passing,
that the sprigs of colour leave, undying,
let the man and myth confess, for laughing,
at the inner maple’s sappy crying.

Soil starts with darkness every season,
with a new potential sprout of reason.