Oh, that I were a wish
Whose well be barren.

This life’s unyielding pain,
Would have fared itself far greater than, Spring--
That blooms in December.  A waterfall,
Whose stream never thickens. A bird,
Whose chirping be dated.

Oh yes!  That I were a wishing well,
Whose penny be centless. A man,
Whose made-for match, never be fated.

A father.
A mother.
A fallen leaf.

An earthly womb,
unconsumed.