Hope

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

and runs.