The surface of the water
at the bottom of the well
just before the pebble      
touches its reflection,

the frame of the moment
without the event,
possibility’s
untapped reservoir

from which emerges
the sum of all convergences,
circumstance and act
inextricably

meshed in the matrix
of consequence:
this peach split open,
shaken overripe

from an unshaded branch,
bruises oozing juice
on harrowed clods
the ants are swarming

the orchard birds will
beak its flesh piecemeal
parched dirt is soaking up
a blessèd windfall.