If, at the harvest, I bring you a jug of cold water,
and you drink till you are drunk, I am your servant.
If, in the late garden, I dig up roots and you coax a fire
from a rock, we shall become the feast.
Later, as frost scatters across the field like ashes
and crunches underfoot, I’ll know it is you.
If the sun hits the red fox on the path, carving
a shadow beneath it, I will be struck blind for you.
Or when the running creek smooths itself over stones,
we’ll join together, moss drooping from trees.
And when the eyes burn the object of your gaze,
let this world slip into a bank of snow-clouds.
Suppose darkening thoughts douse you like rain.
Your eyes will lead us like lanterns to shelter.
And if the cause of our joy is simply this turn
of the seasons, it’s the hearth in which we’re forged.