untitled poem

and so it was seen--
a crack in the black rock
that poured forth lined light,
a streak of hope to dash toward.


and then a sprout--
a few leaves on rusted sand,
months and miles evaporated
for a root somehow soaked.

but it was you pulling that plow--
and your pores the sprinkling spout,
sweating life into arid doubt;
you've been here before.


the greatest treasures lie underground--
you bring them to that slit,
passing through jewels for others to find
strolling along swept streets.