Already the feet of the rabbit are white.
The river runs low in its rocky bed.
And though the season for growing is done,
there is still much to be planted.
Some things, love, are better begun
when its darker and heading toward cold.
We will not see the flowers that grow
from these roots for a long, long time,
chance is never, I suppose. But that is no
reason not to put our hands in the dirt,
to sow and sow again. When we are quiet,
I hear the river crossing the stones. When we are quiet,
I swear I can almost hear the sound
of roots as they stretch toward a deeping dark.