We look for the message,
the motives,
and you bend yourself
toward light.
And we wonder
if you feel it.

Time pulls
wind and water
to bed.
And after all the years
they’ve spent
in making you,
you owe them more than this.
Why are you silent?

You must pay
your debt of words —
a pound of flesh,
a pound of fruit,
and armfuls
of goldenrod and purple aster,
bound in hummingbird wings —
if you would have this moon,
this muse.

We watch each sowing
unfold into
something never heard.
You allow us
to run rampant,
to grow wild,
to grow weathered.

And yes,
if you would attend,
I could be your slave.
And I will not
weep for you,
though it is
no simple thing
to bear the loss
that each leaves
in its wake.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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