The Basket

Your basket, full of stones.

What you carried to breakfast.

The water behind the house is grey and full of bodies.
Stepping stones, bones --
it all feels the same when your foot presses down on it.

The house looks like the houses children draw.
The roof is sound but there are only two windows, facing the sun.
Or the moon, when the moon is out.

You have never seen the moon. 
You wake only when the light is full 
and broken into pieces you can hold.

The basket is not full of light
but you hoist it up and carry it home anyway.

Once, you thought you saw the moon
but it was only a shadow during the day, 
cast onto the side of a tree.
If you saw the moon you would sing to it.

Your basket, full of stones:
Your hand on the handle, gripping it.
Your arm, your shoulder, your back, 
bearing the weight.

You carry it home. 
You lay the stones out in the pot and boil them
until the water tastes like earth.

Poured hot into mugs, you breathe it in.