A Literary Prayer (© 2001) by isobel@one.net )
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 who I cannot name
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.
Blood of my blood, I offer you to the storm.
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not my type2
held my interst but ...
made me hot
had to go tell my lover
needed a fireman to put out my fire
