Poets can’t be choosers. Is there ever too much? Frivolous, a generosity after fortresses and grain fields solidified. Something done after a long day, sipping a warm something. Getting warm inside and out. Instead of chess.

All those sunrises and sunsets, all those droughts and floods, all those things we’ve signed away.

But here is a quiet river that trickles far away, unrelenting. A necessity.