Maybe

Maybe there isn’t youth enough to overflow that well at every season, the way it once appeared there was. Maybe certainly. Maybe our ease and accuracy is reduced, our harbor stripped of shelter, our knowing rounded and eroded into grainy image and a fainter likeness. Maybe the loss is greater than our own cells, and extends into deeper violations of how the world appears, the face that god presents to our squinting visage, the holy of holies too becoming wrinkled and fermented as time lays its claim. Maybe certainly. And maybe, what once held the guise of newness was in fact simply warmth, or generosity, or a circulation of wonder. Maybe it continues to flow, sap a little more viscous and potent, steady on into this unattended season.