Feathers_And_Cream
Virgin
- Joined
- Jul 10, 2006
- Posts
- 7
"Wheel" (semi-erotic??) Feedback, please- new edited version added
Part One- Imbolc
I.
It is awakening-time,
when seeds begin to stir in slumber,
and the tree-girl's seeds are stirring,
too.
It's time she admits it-
she's not who she thought she was,
and the potential for change is enormous
as little leaflets dream
of tasting open sky.
II.
Honesty resides within herself.
She can write the words, but
she still
can't
say them
to anyone.
She holds on to old dreams of prom dresses
and flower-filled nights,
opposites attracting.
But if she's going to keep on
admitting things,
she's got another truth to tell:
this tree-girl is attracted to
a different dimension of opposite.
Part Two- Quarter Moon
III.
Sleeping, she spins her forest dreams,
and as the sparkling night curtain falls
her new dream
flits in the corners of her mind,
before taking flight.
IV.
Dream-spirit pale as whispered moonlight,
but her heart's the shadows beneath the trees,
the spaces between the stars;
an exotic, unknown, alien quality,
Unquantifiable, uncomprehensible.
The tree-girl watches her
dance across the sky,
looking upward,
a wide-eyed wonder child.
In her mind's mouth,
she tastes pure dark chocolate:
tantalizing, smooth bitterness
with a secret trace of something sweet
buried deep inside.
V.
The tree-girl dreams on,
lost in her enchanted midnight forest.
While she's sleeping,
she could almost believe
it's true.
Part Three- Ostara
VI.
The tree-girl's becoming comfortable
with these new manifestations of her self,
whether they're in painter jeans and pigtails,
or clad only in sky
and an ivy wreath,
celebrating the season in an ancient fashion.
Maybe she's deluding herself,
but the flower heads seem to be encouraging her,
nodding in the spring breezes.
Yes, this is truly you.
Rejoice! all is well.
VII.
She's becoming addicted to organic dark chocolate,
and the taste of cacao lingers on her lips
as she rides her bike in spring rain.
Warm soft droplets insinuate themselves
into her braid, and under the collar
of her jacket,
and she laughs,
dances through the downpour,
celebrates the secret that only she knows.
Part Four- Full Moon
VIII.
Night dreams and day dreams,
the tree-girl sinks her roots in
and drinks deep.
She wants to appreciate every facet
of this dark chocolate mystery:
-an elegant, upswept eyebrow
-the wryly upturned corner of her smile.
There are a million people in this one,
and they are all beautiful:
-mischievous and childlike
-amused and aloof
-and
(rarest of all)
filled with a deep, serene stillness.
IX.
Watching with constant wonder,
waiting for a day when maybe
(could it be?)
it could be. Hope keeps its wings,
even in the face of reality.
Part Five- Beltane
X.
Tree's veins are rushing with sap,
and the tree-girl's veins
are rushing, too.
She moves with a new urgency,
hands animating her conversation,
eyes dancing above her smile-
a smile with a wry twist, as if to say
maybe you don't know me
so well after all.
She feels confident, sassy;
for once, she's not afraid of conflict.
This powerful new self she is
doesn't back down
from anything.
XI.
In this season, everything she does
is passionate-
whether it be playing her viola,
each bowstroke swelling with emotion,
or writing more and more,
fingers leaping over pages.
It's an intensity like nothing else;
as if her life has been dipped in golden color.
Everything looks deeper, richer,
Real and unreal all at once.
She can't hold it in-
so she goes home and lights candles,
dancing 'midst the burning flames
as the sun floats down to the horizon.
Part Six- Sunset
XII.
The egg-yolk sun bursts,
spilling crimson 'cross the sky:
Vivid colors dripping down the clouds,
lit from within by a fiery beauty.
XIII.
Fire also resides behind the eyes
of the dark chocolate girl.
Heat rising flushes her cheeks
and warms her pale skin to a golden glow.
She's not the only one-
the tree-girl can feel herself resonating,
singing out without words,
reaching out to brush the feather ends
of disarrayed brunette bangs,
and she is pulled into her dream.
XIV.
A burst of spice and bittersweet longing
on her lips, and they're growing closer,
Molten kisses and melding minds
until they cannot tell where one ends
and the other begins:
their pulses throb in a matching beat,
and they both carry the scents of
trees and tarragon, nutmeg and nectar,
cloud-tears and cinnamon.
XV.
Awake, a gasp of cold air
floods the tree-girl's lungs-
She sits up, disoriented, cut off,
wishing wistfully to believe.
Part Seven- Litha
XVI.
When friends inquire
-Why are you smiling?
the tree-girl grins wider
and skips away.
Heads shake.
They can't possibly know why
she's always dancing,
always laughing,
humming a quiet tune with a secretive smile.
XVII.
But her joy is infectious-
They find themselves singing along;
She skips out into meadows and they follow.
Together, they gather flowers:
dandelions slipped into pockets,
purple coneflowers in their hair,
clover blossoms tied together for jewelry.
Clumps of giggling teenage girls
sprawl in the sweet grass,
swaying as one,
arm in arm.
Some wonder what this magic could be,
that gives them merry voices,
light feet,
and wingéd hearts.
The tree-girl knows,
but only her rosebud smile
(tightly closed, yet full of promise)
tells them why
-this day is perfect.
Part Eight- Twilight
XVIII.
Summer evening is hushed, warm,
even as cooling shadows
curl around the trees,
but an infant breath of air
stirs through this dream-forest,
tiptoes across the sleeping form
of the dark chocolate girl.
XIX.
Dreamily awake,
the tree-girl regards her friend
with a gentle affection.
She who is alien, unknowable,
unbending, determined,
fire's spirit and bitter dark chocolate,
seems softer in faint evening glow,
fragile in the shadows.
Curled like a kitten at the base of a tree,
her thin cotton shirt rises and falls
with her breath,
ripples briefly in the tiny newborn breeze.
For the moment, her aura is calm,
gentle, tender, warm…
vulnerable.
XX.
With one hand, the tree-girl
reaches out-
then pulls back, hesitant,
watching the last dying rays of sunlight
vanish from her face.
Part Nine- Lughnasadh
XXI.
The last lazy days of summer
are slowly fading away,
but the tree-girl doesn't want
to let go
just yet.
This moment seems magical,
but she can't decide why;
she can only see it
slipping through her grasp.
XXII.
So she lays back
in the meadow, and thinks:
About green grass turned golden,
About the fat fuzzy bees
droning slowly overhead,
About the way the wind
plays with her- soft
and sweet one moment,
cool the next.
Everything seems to be waiting,
poised on the edge of tomorrow,
and she asks the trees,
What is the ending like?
but they only rustle their leaves,
showing off the almost-ripe fruit
just out of reach.
XXIII.
Walking up her front steps,
she comes to this conclusion:
Everything is most beautiful right before it dies.
Then a cool breeze rushes past,
and she shivers,
and goes in.
Part Ten- Waning Moon
XXIV.
Now, the breeze moves with a gleeful mischief,
whipping though the dream-trees,
gathering up bits of vanishing cricket song
and tossing it to the wispy clouds
that fly across the heavens.
XXV.
Akin to this impish wind
is the dark chocolate girl;
She runs,
light-footed through the forest,
throwing a dare-glance
over her shoulder,
her grin a challenge:
Catch me if you can!
So the tree-girl chases,
the forest floor flying beneath her feet,
and they engage
in a flitting dance of spirits
-here
-gone
-almost…
The tree-girl reaches,
misses,
stumbles,
and stops in a clearing.
XXVI.
She stands there,
feeling the earth between her toes
and the scratches on her arms and face,
looking around
for a glimpse of a wild spirit,
for something
that might never have existed.
Part Eleven- Mabon
XXVII.
As the leaves
drift down to earth,
the tree-girl carries boxes
down from the attic,
signs of winter coming, full of
all the things used a year ago
and put away in spring.
They cover the living room floor,
tops left haphazardly open:
a recycled, somewhat organized recreation
of their ancestors' yearly leavings.
These, too, contain dried-out memories.
XXVIII.
She finds,
tucked between jackets,
a notebook filled with springtime scribbles,
memories of the beginning.
Reading, the tree-girl feels
as if she's looking for her reflection
in a barren stream.
Is this who she is?
Confident, self-assured?
Now, it seems that nothing is certain,
nothing comfortable.
XXIX.
Wandering outside to escape the boxes,
the wind swirls
around her ankles,
brittle leaves brushing the ground.
The air is crisp and dry,
like forgotten sheets of paper;
nothing remains of her flowers
except twisted, dessicated stems.
The potting soil has become
crumbled dust,
and she feels like she's lost something
as the breeze dances among the skeletons.
Part Twelve- Dark Moon
XXX.
The sky is empty-
no luminous orb,
glowing on the black velvet blanket of night;
only the stars,
a thousand shattered pieces
of something once bright and beautiful,
give just enough light
to cast shadows-
no more.
XXXI.
In those shadows,
the tree-girl drifts.
Wide eyes of a child, once filled
with wonder,
are now empty, glassy:
Tears would be a weakness,
and she could never be loved
if she were weak.
So she wanders, waits,
searches the skeletal forest
until her clothes are torn
into flapping shreds,
a million scraps of sadness
and darkness
adorning her wraithlike body.
XXXII.
But her place of dreams
is as empty
as the sky.
Part Thirteen- Samhain
XXXIII.
Gales and gathering thunderclouds
drive costumed children indoors
and blow out candles
in jack-o-lanterns;
the tree-girl runs outdoors,
her eyes incited from death to inferno
by the furious wind.
She screams into the darkness:
Why?
And in answer,
comes the storm.
XXXIV.
Yes, winds come
and tear everything away.
Yes, rain and hail
beat and batter the earth.
Yes, lightning can split a tree,
or turn a person inside out.
But-
from the storms of life
come new beginnings,
built on the rubble of disaster.
Trees that survive
grow new limbs,
The earth is replenished
with rain and lightning,
seeds are scattered
to their sleeping-places,
and everything waits
for the wheel to turn:
to be reborn.
XXXV.
So, with desperate hope, the tree-girl stands
and throws all that remains
of herself
into the storm,
letting its raw power work
where life has given up.
Her cheeks are wet-
from tears or tempest?
but her eyes come alive above them,
and she cries her challenge:
Come, storms, whip your wild winds around me!
I dance with danger and laugh at those
who cower behind closed doors.
Here I am! come soak me with your downpour;
I am ready, I am waiting for you,
For your unearthly beauty that few comprehend.
Wash through me, bear me up,
In these brief moments, give me wings,
And I will fly with tears of joy.
Part Fourteen- New Moon
XXXVI,
After the rain,
everything seems softer:
treetops are no longer bare claws,
but frayed, featherlike brushes;
dead leaves carpet the earth
in a gentle blanket
rather than in brittle shards.
And, like a hint of a smile,
the faintest beginning of a crescent moon
reflects just enough light
to dream by.
XXXVII.
Now, the tree-girl
no longer fears the darkness.
She welcomes its comforting obscurity,
wraps herself in soothing shadows.
It is resting-time,
and her eyes are heavy with sleep,
her clothes tattered and worn.
So she lays down in the loam,
and as she disappears
into the gentle leaf blanket,
her mouth carries a hint of a smile.
Part Fifteen- Yule
XXXVIII.
In this season, it seems,
the tree-girl always has
someone holding her;
the armchair where she watches snow,
the presence of the Deities,
a relative's welcoming hug.
After so much lonely wandering,
it's a comfort to have
someone's arms around her;
even if it makes her weak,
it's friendship now she needs.
A time to relax and let the pain be soothed away
by cozy blankets
and hot drinks,
vanilla warmth from inside out.
XXXIX.
Holidays are for togetherness,
as her mother says, and together,
they make traditional foods,
finding ease in familiarity.
Home has become a bright beacon
in the night and snow;
a cozy cave
to wait out the season's changes.
XL.
Midnight fog hangs magic in the air;
Doorbell brings the tree-girl running
to let in her friend.
A last-minute gift exchange
with the car waiting,
and flying fingers make fast work
of wrapping paper.
The presents are wonderful,
but the tree-girl now believes
that the best present
is her friend;
seeing bright eyes dance
makes it all worth the while,
and she's surprised to find she's crying
as she waves goodnight.
Part Sixteen- Dawn
XLI.
To the passerby's eye,
the dream-forest is dead:
leafless, barren, buried in snow.
But listen-
footsteps echo in the earth,
mischief whispers, sleepiness smiles.
Stop for a minute,
and feel midsummer sun,
April raindrops, autumn breeze.
If you take a deep breath,
you can catch the scents of trees and tarragon,
nutmeg and nectar, cloud-tears and cinnamon,
And as the first pale ray of sunlight
reaches out to touch you, remember:
seeds are sleeping in the earth.
Part One- Imbolc
I.
It is awakening-time,
when seeds begin to stir in slumber,
and the tree-girl's seeds are stirring,
too.
It's time she admits it-
she's not who she thought she was,
and the potential for change is enormous
as little leaflets dream
of tasting open sky.
II.
Honesty resides within herself.
She can write the words, but
she still
can't
say them
to anyone.
She holds on to old dreams of prom dresses
and flower-filled nights,
opposites attracting.
But if she's going to keep on
admitting things,
she's got another truth to tell:
this tree-girl is attracted to
a different dimension of opposite.
Part Two- Quarter Moon
III.
Sleeping, she spins her forest dreams,
and as the sparkling night curtain falls
her new dream
flits in the corners of her mind,
before taking flight.
IV.
Dream-spirit pale as whispered moonlight,
but her heart's the shadows beneath the trees,
the spaces between the stars;
an exotic, unknown, alien quality,
Unquantifiable, uncomprehensible.
The tree-girl watches her
dance across the sky,
looking upward,
a wide-eyed wonder child.
In her mind's mouth,
she tastes pure dark chocolate:
tantalizing, smooth bitterness
with a secret trace of something sweet
buried deep inside.
V.
The tree-girl dreams on,
lost in her enchanted midnight forest.
While she's sleeping,
she could almost believe
it's true.
Part Three- Ostara
VI.
The tree-girl's becoming comfortable
with these new manifestations of her self,
whether they're in painter jeans and pigtails,
or clad only in sky
and an ivy wreath,
celebrating the season in an ancient fashion.
Maybe she's deluding herself,
but the flower heads seem to be encouraging her,
nodding in the spring breezes.
Yes, this is truly you.
Rejoice! all is well.
VII.
She's becoming addicted to organic dark chocolate,
and the taste of cacao lingers on her lips
as she rides her bike in spring rain.
Warm soft droplets insinuate themselves
into her braid, and under the collar
of her jacket,
and she laughs,
dances through the downpour,
celebrates the secret that only she knows.
Part Four- Full Moon
VIII.
Night dreams and day dreams,
the tree-girl sinks her roots in
and drinks deep.
She wants to appreciate every facet
of this dark chocolate mystery:
-an elegant, upswept eyebrow
-the wryly upturned corner of her smile.
There are a million people in this one,
and they are all beautiful:
-mischievous and childlike
-amused and aloof
-and
(rarest of all)
filled with a deep, serene stillness.
IX.
Watching with constant wonder,
waiting for a day when maybe
(could it be?)
it could be. Hope keeps its wings,
even in the face of reality.
Part Five- Beltane
X.
Tree's veins are rushing with sap,
and the tree-girl's veins
are rushing, too.
She moves with a new urgency,
hands animating her conversation,
eyes dancing above her smile-
a smile with a wry twist, as if to say
maybe you don't know me
so well after all.
She feels confident, sassy;
for once, she's not afraid of conflict.
This powerful new self she is
doesn't back down
from anything.
XI.
In this season, everything she does
is passionate-
whether it be playing her viola,
each bowstroke swelling with emotion,
or writing more and more,
fingers leaping over pages.
It's an intensity like nothing else;
as if her life has been dipped in golden color.
Everything looks deeper, richer,
Real and unreal all at once.
She can't hold it in-
so she goes home and lights candles,
dancing 'midst the burning flames
as the sun floats down to the horizon.
Part Six- Sunset
XII.
The egg-yolk sun bursts,
spilling crimson 'cross the sky:
Vivid colors dripping down the clouds,
lit from within by a fiery beauty.
XIII.
Fire also resides behind the eyes
of the dark chocolate girl.
Heat rising flushes her cheeks
and warms her pale skin to a golden glow.
She's not the only one-
the tree-girl can feel herself resonating,
singing out without words,
reaching out to brush the feather ends
of disarrayed brunette bangs,
and she is pulled into her dream.
XIV.
A burst of spice and bittersweet longing
on her lips, and they're growing closer,
Molten kisses and melding minds
until they cannot tell where one ends
and the other begins:
their pulses throb in a matching beat,
and they both carry the scents of
trees and tarragon, nutmeg and nectar,
cloud-tears and cinnamon.
XV.
Awake, a gasp of cold air
floods the tree-girl's lungs-
She sits up, disoriented, cut off,
wishing wistfully to believe.
Part Seven- Litha
XVI.
When friends inquire
-Why are you smiling?
the tree-girl grins wider
and skips away.
Heads shake.
They can't possibly know why
she's always dancing,
always laughing,
humming a quiet tune with a secretive smile.
XVII.
But her joy is infectious-
They find themselves singing along;
She skips out into meadows and they follow.
Together, they gather flowers:
dandelions slipped into pockets,
purple coneflowers in their hair,
clover blossoms tied together for jewelry.
Clumps of giggling teenage girls
sprawl in the sweet grass,
swaying as one,
arm in arm.
Some wonder what this magic could be,
that gives them merry voices,
light feet,
and wingéd hearts.
The tree-girl knows,
but only her rosebud smile
(tightly closed, yet full of promise)
tells them why
-this day is perfect.
Part Eight- Twilight
XVIII.
Summer evening is hushed, warm,
even as cooling shadows
curl around the trees,
but an infant breath of air
stirs through this dream-forest,
tiptoes across the sleeping form
of the dark chocolate girl.
XIX.
Dreamily awake,
the tree-girl regards her friend
with a gentle affection.
She who is alien, unknowable,
unbending, determined,
fire's spirit and bitter dark chocolate,
seems softer in faint evening glow,
fragile in the shadows.
Curled like a kitten at the base of a tree,
her thin cotton shirt rises and falls
with her breath,
ripples briefly in the tiny newborn breeze.
For the moment, her aura is calm,
gentle, tender, warm…
vulnerable.
XX.
With one hand, the tree-girl
reaches out-
then pulls back, hesitant,
watching the last dying rays of sunlight
vanish from her face.
Part Nine- Lughnasadh
XXI.
The last lazy days of summer
are slowly fading away,
but the tree-girl doesn't want
to let go
just yet.
This moment seems magical,
but she can't decide why;
she can only see it
slipping through her grasp.
XXII.
So she lays back
in the meadow, and thinks:
About green grass turned golden,
About the fat fuzzy bees
droning slowly overhead,
About the way the wind
plays with her- soft
and sweet one moment,
cool the next.
Everything seems to be waiting,
poised on the edge of tomorrow,
and she asks the trees,
What is the ending like?
but they only rustle their leaves,
showing off the almost-ripe fruit
just out of reach.
XXIII.
Walking up her front steps,
she comes to this conclusion:
Everything is most beautiful right before it dies.
Then a cool breeze rushes past,
and she shivers,
and goes in.
Part Ten- Waning Moon
XXIV.
Now, the breeze moves with a gleeful mischief,
whipping though the dream-trees,
gathering up bits of vanishing cricket song
and tossing it to the wispy clouds
that fly across the heavens.
XXV.
Akin to this impish wind
is the dark chocolate girl;
She runs,
light-footed through the forest,
throwing a dare-glance
over her shoulder,
her grin a challenge:
Catch me if you can!
So the tree-girl chases,
the forest floor flying beneath her feet,
and they engage
in a flitting dance of spirits
-here
-gone
-almost…
The tree-girl reaches,
misses,
stumbles,
and stops in a clearing.
XXVI.
She stands there,
feeling the earth between her toes
and the scratches on her arms and face,
looking around
for a glimpse of a wild spirit,
for something
that might never have existed.
Part Eleven- Mabon
XXVII.
As the leaves
drift down to earth,
the tree-girl carries boxes
down from the attic,
signs of winter coming, full of
all the things used a year ago
and put away in spring.
They cover the living room floor,
tops left haphazardly open:
a recycled, somewhat organized recreation
of their ancestors' yearly leavings.
These, too, contain dried-out memories.
XXVIII.
She finds,
tucked between jackets,
a notebook filled with springtime scribbles,
memories of the beginning.
Reading, the tree-girl feels
as if she's looking for her reflection
in a barren stream.
Is this who she is?
Confident, self-assured?
Now, it seems that nothing is certain,
nothing comfortable.
XXIX.
Wandering outside to escape the boxes,
the wind swirls
around her ankles,
brittle leaves brushing the ground.
The air is crisp and dry,
like forgotten sheets of paper;
nothing remains of her flowers
except twisted, dessicated stems.
The potting soil has become
crumbled dust,
and she feels like she's lost something
as the breeze dances among the skeletons.
Part Twelve- Dark Moon
XXX.
The sky is empty-
no luminous orb,
glowing on the black velvet blanket of night;
only the stars,
a thousand shattered pieces
of something once bright and beautiful,
give just enough light
to cast shadows-
no more.
XXXI.
In those shadows,
the tree-girl drifts.
Wide eyes of a child, once filled
with wonder,
are now empty, glassy:
Tears would be a weakness,
and she could never be loved
if she were weak.
So she wanders, waits,
searches the skeletal forest
until her clothes are torn
into flapping shreds,
a million scraps of sadness
and darkness
adorning her wraithlike body.
XXXII.
But her place of dreams
is as empty
as the sky.
Part Thirteen- Samhain
XXXIII.
Gales and gathering thunderclouds
drive costumed children indoors
and blow out candles
in jack-o-lanterns;
the tree-girl runs outdoors,
her eyes incited from death to inferno
by the furious wind.
She screams into the darkness:
Why?
And in answer,
comes the storm.
XXXIV.
Yes, winds come
and tear everything away.
Yes, rain and hail
beat and batter the earth.
Yes, lightning can split a tree,
or turn a person inside out.
But-
from the storms of life
come new beginnings,
built on the rubble of disaster.
Trees that survive
grow new limbs,
The earth is replenished
with rain and lightning,
seeds are scattered
to their sleeping-places,
and everything waits
for the wheel to turn:
to be reborn.
XXXV.
So, with desperate hope, the tree-girl stands
and throws all that remains
of herself
into the storm,
letting its raw power work
where life has given up.
Her cheeks are wet-
from tears or tempest?
but her eyes come alive above them,
and she cries her challenge:
Come, storms, whip your wild winds around me!
I dance with danger and laugh at those
who cower behind closed doors.
Here I am! come soak me with your downpour;
I am ready, I am waiting for you,
For your unearthly beauty that few comprehend.
Wash through me, bear me up,
In these brief moments, give me wings,
And I will fly with tears of joy.
Part Fourteen- New Moon
XXXVI,
After the rain,
everything seems softer:
treetops are no longer bare claws,
but frayed, featherlike brushes;
dead leaves carpet the earth
in a gentle blanket
rather than in brittle shards.
And, like a hint of a smile,
the faintest beginning of a crescent moon
reflects just enough light
to dream by.
XXXVII.
Now, the tree-girl
no longer fears the darkness.
She welcomes its comforting obscurity,
wraps herself in soothing shadows.
It is resting-time,
and her eyes are heavy with sleep,
her clothes tattered and worn.
So she lays down in the loam,
and as she disappears
into the gentle leaf blanket,
her mouth carries a hint of a smile.
Part Fifteen- Yule
XXXVIII.
In this season, it seems,
the tree-girl always has
someone holding her;
the armchair where she watches snow,
the presence of the Deities,
a relative's welcoming hug.
After so much lonely wandering,
it's a comfort to have
someone's arms around her;
even if it makes her weak,
it's friendship now she needs.
A time to relax and let the pain be soothed away
by cozy blankets
and hot drinks,
vanilla warmth from inside out.
XXXIX.
Holidays are for togetherness,
as her mother says, and together,
they make traditional foods,
finding ease in familiarity.
Home has become a bright beacon
in the night and snow;
a cozy cave
to wait out the season's changes.
XL.
Midnight fog hangs magic in the air;
Doorbell brings the tree-girl running
to let in her friend.
A last-minute gift exchange
with the car waiting,
and flying fingers make fast work
of wrapping paper.
The presents are wonderful,
but the tree-girl now believes
that the best present
is her friend;
seeing bright eyes dance
makes it all worth the while,
and she's surprised to find she's crying
as she waves goodnight.
Part Sixteen- Dawn
XLI.
To the passerby's eye,
the dream-forest is dead:
leafless, barren, buried in snow.
But listen-
footsteps echo in the earth,
mischief whispers, sleepiness smiles.
Stop for a minute,
and feel midsummer sun,
April raindrops, autumn breeze.
If you take a deep breath,
you can catch the scents of trees and tarragon,
nutmeg and nectar, cloud-tears and cinnamon,
And as the first pale ray of sunlight
reaches out to touch you, remember:
seeds are sleeping in the earth.
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