Nine Hazels

They say nine hazels leaned above the well and everything they dropped, the water learned —

the nut, the leaf, the small brown weight of autumn, the shadow of a bird crossing at noon.

They say a salmon took the nuts and kept them, one spot bright on his side for every one,

and that a boy who burned his thumb on the cooking got the whole of it by accident, as we do.

I have no well. I have a kitchen tap and a window with a hazel at the end of it,

and some mornings when the light comes through the leaves I put my thumb against my mouth and wait.