Fecund

to make myself at home
in this cracked and
crumbling
dome,
i'll bury my fingers in
the loamy soil, and
i'll linger when
i should
roam.

it pains me to see
you here; vines
burrowing
through the sheer
fabric that wraps
your back, and around
your legs, so dear.

i packed a gunny sack with
some trinkets, and
i tracked
you through a
wood where
tall pines
stood
shorn of the
limbs they
lacked.

but now
i see you climb,
on wings of verse
and rhyme,
through a star-filled black
from which you won't
come back
for a long, long time.

on a seaside, stroked by foam,
sits a heavy, empty tome
pouring out the words
that lonesome birds
to their long-lost
mates intone.