In the roots
circles are closing
like tears after dark
in winter
in the park
scattered like bread on water
the value of love, they say, is
not in it’s return
it remains undiminished
a noble innocence
a whisper that we strain to hear
that even in silence
might drown in the demands of
our own contrivance
so subtle, it’s movement
our own breath might disturb it
turn it from thresholds
to roadway
to dissppear in rising waves
of endless Eastering