I had a dream so pure of form
it slipped intact from the dark:

out of a narrow cleft in granite,
a waterfall sluiced
down through damp mosses, lichens,
ferns in a glitter of thrown drops.
(I used to fish for trout shadows
there, in childhood,
where the partridgeberry trailed
its small green disks in the spray.)
I could smell the humus
under the trembling leaves.
But there was another scent—
familiar, interior:

I was inside, looking out through
a crude window, a hole
in the wall of massive stones,
and saw the lit candles