Moor at the orchard
wade through soft grass
and golden-yellow apples
to the pond in the middle
steaming in the evening

Enter the round basin
glide into the warm water
and swim over the bottom
of your primeval-applewise knowing
to the stairs of the tower

From the gallery, read the wind, the well
the flow of time, their ripples, their depths
and the misty shadows from later
which in the outside world
only will be recognizable

when the truth in which you
have bathed, is past
Known once remains known
somewhere in the haze of your
dressed-up consciousness