Lone bower of hope in my desert life, spread bare
like pathos, against verdant wood, in this dripping rain,
prayer raised to the grey skies, like a late evening
streak of light holding out brave against engulfing pain:
Lone well in the deep forest, in fogging-wet winds,
refuge of abandoned stalks, music of waning seasons,
this waltz of love plays out amid the melancholy
ends of my choices, joy-stream of the drying fountain
when the chorus of crickets drowns the rhythm of rain.