To and from a river: a stone,
agate; a starving winter sky
brushed by moss; bronze tributaries.

Hope lived alone in the pale nicks.

I waited, held the rocky stone
against my palm in my pocket.
Soon it absorbed my fingerprints.

That diminutive galaxy,
foggy agate map of my heart,
born of others' ancient struggles,

Surrounded me with the wisdom
of the river, icy rapids,
my own crisp and rolling beacon.

The warmth of gold hope lives within;
you can see it in its lanterns,
an apple hollowed and lighted.