Offerings for Solstice

We have fallen now almost
to the bottom of the well, where gold
coins are piled up gleaming.
Water closes over our heads
but we breathe easily, gathering
silver bubbles from the tender leaves
of water-weed. Softy, softly,
don't stir up the silt. Ignore the promise
of some kind of wealth.
Down here in the darkness there's no way
but up. Overhead the sun waits.

Offer me light. Offer me air and water.
Offer me only your hand.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside