In the conservatory, watch plum jam slide
onto breakfast toast as we chatter
private thoughts, take-in rainy woods.
We talk of painting. How sometimes water and paint
run haphazardly and produce a miracle
– call it an image randomly created.
“It’s the Tao.” you say and grab a red
mouthful “Not human. Not water,
More than human and water together:
a form of magic we can’t understand.”
I chew bread and look out into a tangle
of trees that gesture, drip. I turn to you.
Something and nothing wells, wets, softens,
melts our eyes