Inside the sack were tokens
and I was asked to choose—
A thimble or a wine glass.
A seed or a spore. Pruning shears
or the fragrance of velvet-skinned fruit.
I thought about hallways pearly
with grain, and how the bare-headed moon
shone so brightly on them. I lost count
in order to start again. I stared
dumbly at my hands, writing and creasing
the same letter, reading it over. The years
rushed by, though not necessarily toward heartbreak.
Chance wealth fell to the ground in the orchard,
every now and then allowing a taste.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.