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.