These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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(Written after reading Eugenie de Franval)
There is a crash of dead wood.
On this dark and stormy night inspire me; give me the sweating cold of these stony walls, the grit that flies in on the gust. I am dust and my words, seeds and rot. I will not last. These my offerings, tiny and fragile, they must take root in stubborn soil. Fertilize them. Give them shape. Twisted they may grow, but their trunks must be strong. They must reach through the night. They must be of their ground.
O you my brother give me your self. We are one, now - we who felt ourselves born of soil, suckled on winter, made love to by lashing winds, shackled by all our elements. I will drink of you yet. The bitter drops scald my throat, and give deeper notes to my howl. I cry in pain and it is artful.
