Wine-Dark, Gold-Dark

No, the dark hasn't lifted yet. 
But here in this coastal part 
of the south, the daytime hours 
are still streaked with rain, 
meaning snow never crystallized 
enough to make the thickest, 
whitest blanket that might obliterate 
reminders of the crudeness of the world. 
No matter, it's good that we can see
the ribs of trees, damp bucket seats
in the park like empty egg trays, 
the future leaking out at the edges.
Does moving the hour hand forward
hasten arrival at the end of time?
When I tipped the ink bottle over,
a lake of dark red spread on Canson 
paper. That was the first time
I noticed the gold shimmer in 
its depths: a small lesson
for which I was grateful.