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I'd pick intoxicating wildflowers
and when parched, imbibe
the brandy sent along as cure.
I'd lose myself in color,
in tenor.
Any trickster on the path
might make me out to be daft
or else raise his own glass
in toast.
I'd boast that I host abandon
like the sky hosts sun,
until such fun
or the bottle it came in
ran dry.
Colors fade, and grandmas
die, facts no path that is unpath
can unmake.
Relations with the wild,
being of another species
than my own blood,
can produce no child.
Whatever joy there is
in taking the most resistant way,
distant from civilization's urgings,
would be brief.
In the end I'd return by the road I'd come,
carrying more grief, older,
holding the ghost of a wildflower
bouquet in my arms,
as I would the baby I cannot bear,
barren this winter,
and last and the one before,
my belly sewn full of rocks.
If this wood world we inhabit
be a dream, then let it end
so a new dream can assure
another winter, with snow so blue,
so fine, the pines will wear capes
of it like outstretched storks' wings.
The air will ring and ring and ring
with white bells
and the belly of every bride
will rise high, a moon for each
wolf who nightly cries out
to the punishing sky
in brazen voice echoing
fate's unsated hungers.
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