If I were to 

as Pablo Neruda wrote,

sit on the rim of my own well of darkness,

fishing for light,

I might see

monarch butterflies emerging 

from a winged skull on a 1700’s gravestone,

or the girth

of a 200-year-old European beech tree

snaking its way up the well

to greet me,

or maybe I would 

hook a donut or two

that I couldn’t bear to release

back to the well

so instead release them

to the depths of my stomach.