IF I, athirst by a stream, should kneel
With never a blossom or bud in sight,
Till down on the theme of its liquid night
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
at the end of a bad year. Trees begin
to outnumber houses. Rain turns to snow
as fields hang like paintings.
