What We Need Will Come

From fog comes land, shape and shadow—
the croaking night echoes each morning ray,
some mother's little lambs full of romp,
   
the stratus pearling across the sky.
From rot so cross and scattered rise
dandelion clocks, small winged seeds of dream.
   
And the egret's plumage hides on the crook of her neck
waiting for its time to curl into a snowy bouquet.
All these ounces of joy are to be stuffed in the cracks
   
of the windowless schoolyard wall and left to sprout,
in between the slats of the soup kitchen floor to pillow and bloom.
There is no doubt you or I must sow them there.
   
And as for the moon, and its scoffing mouths all filled
with pull, rest your head head on my shoulder, darling,
watch as light crosses the windowsill.
   
Andrew De Haan