On a bad day, you come in from the weather
and lean your back against the door.
This time of year it’s dark by five.
Your armchair, empty in its pool of light.

That arpeggio lifts, like warmth, from the fifth of B minor,
offers its hand – let me
tell you a story . . . But in the same breath,
semitones falling to the tonic:
you must believe and not believe:
that door you came in
you must go out again.

In the forest, the woodcutter’s son
sets the stone down from his sack and speaks to it.
And from nothing, a spring wells,
falling as it rises, spilling out
across the dark green moss.
There is sadness in the world, it says,
past telling. Learn stillness
if you would run clear.