Back country intuition

If when you taste the iron in the deep well's brimming yield You hear the winter ringing of the stars If you can wait past hope and still sense the future moving closer On salt seamist from miles away Or affirm by the sting of a mallet striking oak The shape of things to come Then something in the way the pond gives back the light or the Blooming of a single iris in a hidden place Will bend the world a little for us to see beyond the edge Past stars and velvet roses too straight into the heart of the matter (Ah, be careful then!)