wyrdwind

Tooth and Thorn

I’ll have peace in my home,

I’ve earned it.

You’ll never hear a voice risen

or harsh sound for any reason

other than swept in spirited

song or love making.

Chivalry isn’t dead, you see

this is what it means:

my size and strength in relation

to the lives around me, the courtesy

of boundaries.

Make space

for those softer and smaller,

who belongs here knows

where to step, to tread gently,

fingers lightly or palms hungry,

but never greedy.

Never cruel.

One misstep in my garden, hurry

or intrusion, an ill-intent results

in a wicked three inch spike

straight through.

Accidents happen. Some mistakes

you can’t afford to make

in my presence.

Apex predators don’t waste

time or calories, threats

eliminated immediately.

Those defenses honed

over centuries ensuring

only deft hands,

sensitive mouths taste

the sweetness brought

by ruthless affection.

Baby Steps

My instincts are strong,

if you’re within range long, you’ll tell me

your darkest corners, or you’ll Tell me.

After all, pain

is stored in the body, the things

you carry shape you. There,

inside a pinprick hollow both

full and empty with whatever

existed before creation.

If I turn my head one degree keen,

train my eyes on you, there,

the story comes. Wind catching,

creak splitting, cry nipping,

wings beating escape

thoughts unbidden.

In the kitchen or in a dream,

a piece of me finds the right

form to slip past your noise—

an asteroid belt of daily refuse—

and scent the truth. I’ll take care

not to spook you, to help

you grow in the only direction:

face the sun.

Addiction

People are always doing everything

they can, human or otherwise.

The remedies

for Ups and Downs differ

in receptors and distribution,

the same deception as religion,

your mind places no distinction

between physical and emotional

hurt.

Adrenaline blocks sedation

in a bind, saline solution clears

the nose, activated charcoal water

to purge, induce vomiting where fighting

spirit prevails.

A pinch of poison present

in every cure, be sure

with your affections, be bold

because neurons that fire together

wire together. Pathways

electromagnetic, allow it, this

intervention. You can learn

at any age. The brain produces

opiates all on its own

when nurtured so.

Precious, you never needed

life to be easy, you just needed

someone to be There.

Baptized

A body wants a place, once

I trailed along beneath old growth

redwood canopy threading consonant

through the floor of heaven.

Hallowed and shivering,

dewdrops and morning mist,

emerald ferns and every destination.

Their breath took root then,

echoed ever since, given voice

even when lost

to fire.

I’ll keep walking

until I breathe that air

again, if only when my melodies

mark time on the road.

Maman Brigitte

A house possess spirit,

keeping hearth honors thus,

it’s meant to be lived in,

only tombs gather dust.

Got bikers and voodoo—

could say it’s a scene—

got truckers and dives and

human trafficking.

Valley fever in the fields—

if by fields you mean flats—

child porn in the schools,

priests and cops in on that.

Stripper or soldier or starvation wage,

nobody’s reaching retirement age,

unless you came that way,

here waiting to die,

say there’s nothing to do,

did you ask yourself why?

Grave of First Woman,

Queen of Cemetery,

burning peppers in rum,

plant trees in her memory.

Got Nazis on remix

racing the streets

children could play in

if it weren’t for the heat

and the police—

dig a bit deeper you’ll know

what I mean reason women

won’t be reporting.

Tweakers crypt strutting

on skeleton business, got skin

like gas station hot dogs—

be sure your dumpster’s locked.

Another Honda Civic mod

fit to deafen god.

Each picked a poppet,

corn husk carried close,

may swaddle or pierce it,

bound which path you chose.

Got nose hairs singed sooty,

no visibility—don’t look,

bumps in the street,

this is fine, probably the right

lane, there’s Operation Cool Shade

with the willows again.

Bless those black parking lot pigeons,

still making it work poisoned

by heavy metals and disdain.

Bless those who’ve got nothing

still carrying their dogs to spare

them scorched feet.

Barista didn’t charge for my coffee,

just winked at me.

Solitary Confinement

Sometimes the enclosure is too small,

without company, texture, or movement.

The beast paces back and forth,

claws, fur, and teeth scraping,

eyes unseeing past the bars.

Never approach still water.

Hearing is the last to leave you,

so we start there.

Don’t seek the open door

if there’s no rhythm to the next room.

Muffled footsteps, pattering faucet,

clinking dishes, whirring fan,

crunching kibble, kicking an itch

behind its ear, shaking it off.

For a moment you caught voices,

but that’s none of your concern.

From the River Styx

Well not to point fingers

at the devil’s sacrament but

I wasn’t drunk or high so

I’m marginally responsible.

This guy stood stricken staring

at nothing, white as new moon roadkill

and about to be but men

prey on sympathy and I

did try to remain unseen.

Gasp.

Motherfucker looking dead at me

like he ain’t seen another soul

or I was the ghost.

“You’re beautiful,”

that’s top shelf hospice

drugs right there, yep,

“- glowing like an angel!”

“That’s the sun rising.”

Gasp.

“My girlfriend’s waiting for me,

she’s beautiful too!”

Buddy got lost three whole days

previous, doing gods know what,

definitely not eating, or bathing

from the smell.

Told him report back to upper management,

pulled a Pink Panther to be sure he went.

A window winked on, godspeed bitch,

he’s your problem now.

I’m not looking to go out of my way,

but on my honor if there’s any woman

dead or alive still gives

a fuck ’bout you, I’ll do my best

to get you home to her.

Lullaby of an Elder Kind

Been playing those heartstrings,

scarred things, a condor’s wings

fletched baritone.

Strung up by adhesions alone,

did you forget you’re home,

if you’d just come down

we’ll set those bones.

Oh beauty, my creature,

old wounds need fresh edges,

you gotta bleed where the damage is,

if it takes the needle I’ll mend it.

Been soaring for some distance.

I’ve missed this, aloft my branches

in fixed position.

Till death given permission,

too tired to carry on,

you’ll never want for carrion,

see now storm’s come and gone.

Oh beauty, my creature,

old wounds need fresh edges,

you gotta bleed where the damage is,

if it takes the needle I’ll mend it.

Cowgirl Conjuring

One shot for the gods,

one shot for the dead,

one shot for the land,

whence water has fled.

Ropin’ a kelpie worlds away,

sweet talkin’, wend walkin’,

five finger grip in his mane.

No Gaelic but dangerous

hearts beat in time,

as moon pulses tidal

do I call him mine.

One lock silvered brown,

one tight marshtress braid,

one knot no bridle,

that I’m not afraid.

Bareback barefoot thighs firm in the rain,

who’s driving who ‘cross once rolling plains,

river, sinew, thunder, near,

lips grace his neck if I want his ear,

blood, bite, bass, here.

Mud slick tragic mess of a man,

all it took some persuasion.

Fairy Tales

The child naked and strange,

became a woman stranger

to her family, some other

breed.

At a loss,

took up patchwork, clothes

maketh She.

What could she be, anything

but matching,

but plain enough for he.

Nose to the grind and colorblind,

did he even see

her screaming just touch me

know Me.

Once finished

her swan song seams,

he asked why their love dimmed,

said she only drank

around him.

True Crime

Icy down of predawn,

a second space.

Waking up

or still awake?

Who are you there

when flesh is cold?

Scratching tally marks

on the walls of your soul.

Are you alone?

If you can face it

a truth be known.

Tossing in sheets

or burrowed in furs?

Toes tickle feet

under covers.

It’s unforgiving wilderness, I’m sure,

but I’m right here.

I’m right here.

Despair

Hush, little one,

we begin in the dark of the moon.

Hvshi ninak aya,

you need not cry for her to hear you,

she’ll be here soon.

Hvshi ninak aya,

brave chin for work yet to do,

go pick up a broom.

Hvshi ninak aya,

grunge and cobwebs caked to beat loose,

dishes in your room.

Hands open, little one,

small as may be.

Hvshi ninak aya,

there’s more when you’re ready.

On Twelfth Night

Unspoken seed stuck in my teeth

of a different story,

before the scene opening,

orphaned twins

across the ocean so suited,

performing

well into the wee hours, drunk sailors,

merchants or rogue royalty mayhaps.

It could be us, our craft, the stars,

and the sea. Draft

of uncertainty, freedom to fly

or fall. What could be said

side by side gazing upwards?

Deny the agony

of separation.

I’ll keep going

if you will.

Talking Dirty

About 800 sq ft with a greenhouse.

Built it myself.

Early morning,

lover sleeping it off in my bed,

kitchen window open, cats

tussling around my ankles, dog

resting her head on my thigh

while I brew tea. Autumn

leaves just beginning to turn,

spider knitting its veil,

wind chime,

fingers flickering

over a woodwick flame,

crackle, pop.

Four acres, plenty

of privacy, fully

stocked pantry.

A white caribou chosen

to overwinter on my grounds,

she’ll find everything she needs

here, until she gives birth.

It’s about intention.

Agroforestry

Think of them as kingdoms

or great houses.

First is the canopy, often eldest,

extant, or quickest. Skyscrapers

provide shelter.

Second is the understory, heirloom

cornucopia, no two

the same.

Third is the shrubbery, jack

of all trades, lover or fighter,

these guys have range.

Fourth are the herbs, as you’d expect,

locally sourced as they’re hard

to protect.

Fifth are the rhizomes, calorically dense,

everyone loves them, battle

firmly entrenched.

Sixth is the ground cover, love letter

to bees, pollinator paradise,

go crazy with these.

Seventh are the vines, an aria

of flexibility, creativity reigns

supreme.

All laid foundation for this,

on broken holy ground we’ll make it

together.

Tanchi Story

Long ago leaner times,

two brothers, hunters,

sought game for their village.

Days running on empty, little

left between them. Failure

not an option, if it cost

their own limbs.

Last supper beside small fire—

mothers taught them how—

silence and shadows.

A woman wailing,

terrible shape of grief,

artless misery, down in the deep

river bank. Freeze.

They felt their way to her,

“Why do you weep?”

“I’m hungry.”

Set to die anyway, horrors

they couldn’t unsee,

“Please, share our fire,

you need this food more

than we.”

She took only delicate bites,

stood up a beauty,

“Thank you for your hospitality,

tell no one you’ve seen me, and

return to this place

at full moon.”

Gone.

Poor of pride, without proof

of purpose, the brothers

and their village muddled through,

short a few children

and elders.

Where the woman waited,

a burial mound

crowned with corn.

Where grown

starved never again.

Power

Kiss nesting on shoulders’ clasp,

purr-flutter shudder-breaths,

each rib of his chest, heartbeat

steady in my palm.

Belly exposed,

thick fur and visceral

cradling

his spine sweetly curved,

no reservation.

Feral, they said.

I said, bet.

Asymmetrical Warfare

Listen,

I can submit a man

just pulling guard position.

Wherever he thinks he’s won,

I’ll put his reserves to run,

the bigger they are the faster

drained, snatch their strength

where it’s made.

I can sit in a triangle,

ambivalent to indignity, he’s

panting and dripping certain

he’s got me.

Helpless wee baby, a bowl

of noodles on bricks. I do admit

I get some kicks.

I can soften him up

before he ever steps on the mat,

I could play tough girl tomboy

but there’s no fun in that.

Acting a man won’t make you strong,

only their games say otherwise,

stop playing along.

No More Sons

According to the rules

of men, wars can end a matter

of formality. Parameters

shifting, denial

of wrongdoing.

A system

of resource extraction,

as if the Earth and her creatures

require a master,

a clenched fist,

as if she is not Herself

the answer.

Women aren’t expected

to attend because birth

is the duty of second class

citizens.

Our bodies the spoils

of war.

White Blood Cells

Money is worthless outside

this necropolis,

its only purpose to obscure

value, fair

trade Eden for endless

industry.

Cancer is not progress,

what stage is this now?

Radiation therapy

because women are too weak

to enforce boundaries.

Syncretism

Scholars debate the link

between Brigid and Brigitte

because those scholars

are men.

Seeds sprout anywhere their

conditions are met.

When does a goddess of life

become a goddess of death?

In the kitchen, the laundry,

the fields, tiny graves mote it be.

Red wild hair or more nightly breed,

women in kind recognize She.

Come, made space your prayers with me,

we may not speak a common tongue,

a woman’s is the only blood

not born of violence,

on her moon that is.

Who was it suffered really

for your sins?

Healing is retribution,

without justice there is no

peace.

A sacred flame, poetry

is motion, be it

stove or forge or circled stones,

the giants’ mead, the well

of a World Tree. Do you see?

It’s getting late

and a bed’s been made.

When does a goddess of life

become a goddess of death?

When?

When?

When you take

a woman’s choice away.

Passion of Isis

In a jealous rage,

the gods tore her twin to pieces,

set wandering daughter

of earth and starry sky

with naught but her wits

and words and fine fingered

hands.

A woman of the people,

here and there,

bit by bone

she reassembled

the love of lifetimes,

kintsugi masterpiece,

second breath as wild yeast,

commanded to rise.

Oh but paid a price,

she had him just one night,

made such music remember him by,

a child

likewise despised.

Her love eternal departed

lord of the Under

world, and she

carried on.

Every guest,

loaf of bread, baby

safely delivered, mother

of the throne itself, more

than merely a kingmaker,

who rules only at her pleasure.

The stuff of living is her measure,

where two meet and meet again

at every journey’s end.

13^th Month

There’s a winter moon missing

from our year, blood

springs every 28 days, notches

on a bone.

Where did she go?

Severed and nailed

at the mantels veiled

to ward rearticulation.

Like it will protect them.

Thirteen, traditionally,

is the number of magic,

luck, and love.

A woman’s gift,

bless her house with kittens

to eat vermin.

Like that albatross,

a black cat is only an ill omen

if you kill it.

Beer and Bread

Hops, oat straw, and barley fermented

bring milk, among other things.

Kettled and brewed, wetted bosoms,

sweat or colostrum.

Nerve pinching labors

of love. Flour smacked boules

properly soured, motes multiply

these efforts. Porous

village reef.

Invisible GDP.

Dirt and Glitter

Tulle skirt, goth metal shirt,

switchblade and hammer in my purse.

The first rule of fight club:

never smile for a random man.

Sparkly Converse, hair feathers,

four chain problem fairy godmother.

The second rule of fight club:

drop your location for your girls.

Midnight hour, steak fries devour,

heathen under midnight glower.

The third rule of fight club:

no witnesses.

Sticking Point

I know what he did to you

in that darkened bedroom,

split in two

ages, I heard

the smaller stifling

screams, that dream

in early September.

The bigger I could reach,

comforter up over his head,

pale eyes in the cracked door,

distant.

As I had no body,

all I could do

was turn on the light.

Strangers

If I can see a thing,

I can name it.

If I can name it,

it be unmade.

The rules

of science and subconscious

are very much the same.

Your prefrontal cortex

has no control

over the amygdala.

Not in the way you think.

You need a strong stomach

to do what I do.

Can’t get put off your feed.

Gotta tell stories

a scared kid listens to.

Call it software engineering.

A shape they can trust,

a familiar.

Something they can hold

when applied pressure,

any position

is a stress position

load bearing

long enough.

Mind Your Business

Large, furry, warm,

and round.

You wouldn’t hurry either

if you weighed 1000 pounds.

Sometimes a body’s

just got to eat

and sleep and dream.

Who’s gonna stop you

if you’re with me?

Don’t keep with rudeness,

cameras and foolishness,

like they own the place.

Might bite their face.

But that dumpster smells nice.

Let’s have a look.

Real Gold

Butter bankin’s no joke,

if he ain’t put cows on it

he playin’.

One good girl sees the whole

hood through tough times.

Anyone knows what they’re about

treats her like a queen,

don’t pretend otherwise.

Granny used to ride—

bein’ child sized—

their Jersey fine across the green,

such as there was then, during

the Great Depression.

Never did get taller.

Didn’t get dead neither.

Say nothin’ of her suitors.

Thanksgiving

Flailing like a trout on the line

or slopping like a dog with a rubber

peanut butter ball

is NOT

appropriate technique.

Consider this peach.

Cleft rosy and nectar kissed,

cupped with mapled oats and spice,

whiskey rasped cream whipped up

and melting at the navel.

Dessert best served

marquise on a tableau bed

of marrow sucked bones. Pristine

from being broken down

and seen to.

RIP Michealangelo

Candle choral fireplace

at the prow of the den, cut

diagonal on Alaska King sectional,

silvery dove grey flocked velour oversized

gathering everyone pillowed

at the stern.

Oldest Daughter regales

squaring up with two hoodrats

at a bonnie, won the fight but lost

a chain. Just a scuffed little elbow

mars her mortician color scheme.

Youngest Daughter flits

about the room with a Polaroid

and her best friend. Momma mentions

laughing so hard she just slipped out

and she snaps a picture because

we’re perfect right now.

The two of us corner centered

in sprawling repose, dry rose jewel tone

in our glasses, my finger playfully

poking her shoulder.

Crowning achievement

of her birthday.

Baba Yaga

When your shy recluse friend

invites you to a bedroom hang out

you are duty bound to profusely

appreciate her mysterious nest

of trinkets. Behold

the floor.

It’s clean-ish. Praise

her totems.

Lloyd from SPYxFAMILY

if I’m not mistaken.

Nezuko from Demon Slayer

but of course.

Merely a formality,

because what I’m really

here to do is run filthy

commentary on media

of her choosing.

Shameless

as two widowed hags

wine drunk at a craft store.

No bras allowed.

Her mom pitches in from next door,

“We don’t stand on ceremony here.”

Waiting in the Wings

“You’re so fucking hot,”

is so beside the point

it stings.

The best you ever thought

to say to me.

Sunbeam simple didn’t stick

so it’s riddle time:

You only look up when I’m gone,

much too slight or much too strong,

the world ends if I ever stop.

What am I?

Asked so small to come inside,

couldn’t even look me in the eye,

maybe you were terrified,

you knew your lady

could swing a scythe.

Did my final smile

upon your face

seem cruel?

Ten years to thin air,

breezy, I leave quickly

as I came. Bought land

5000 miles away, saved five years

to this day. Baby, I don’t blame

you. But baby I don’t play.

One might be unfeeling,

so here’s two:

If your executive functions

can catch my rear view,

you’ll see all the pictures

your mother treasures most

are ones I took of you.

Pleasure of Skadi

Giants ruled high north,

hard freeze volcanic peaks,

so slain a King of these.

For even gods must answer

for their crimes, they faced

his daughter’s might.

The head of house decides

justice. The obligation

of that rule.

She donned her terrible armor

and played it straight, stealth

quite unnecessary.

Prepare to die or bed with me.

Either or both, means

an end.

The bachelors presented

their feet,

some Odin class trickery.

As it happen the only part of Njord

that wasn’t crusty.

Baldur got off scot free.

They did try

to be happy. Mountains

and the sea, no in between.

Warm and humid met

cold and dry bred

hurricanes,

so she went

home.

No match

for a good coat, a good boot,

a sumptuous roast, or the furs

adorning her own chambers.

If she longed to sight tracks

of a new lover on her hunts

she never let on.

But fate’s winding ways

did string her bow back then.

Her warning shot struck

a different man.

Little known Ullr, stranger

to his kin, had seen her pull up

and saw his twin.

Wed or not, Ullr need him a freak,

loved fierce a big

personality,

pulled up his pants,

strapped on his skis,

and went to meet his destiny,

and well she was appeased.

Yule Be Dreaming

My red spiced lamb curry

and blue corn tortilla fed

everyone here. Low maintenance,

blood building, better with age.

Bubbling cauldron of conversations,

I do stir the pot a bit.

Mostly I admire your lashes,

the sleepy shadows under your eyes,

the tendons in your throat as you laugh.

Could I catch it,

if I put my mouth there?

Would you make a sound?

Stretch silk velvet artfully twisted,

lovingly stitched by hand, the same

thread as mended your sweater.

Nobody would know you’re my man

but for mere moments

you search the lively room

to be sure you’ve not strayed

from my sight.

Cursed Princess

Imprisoned she

slept to survive. In crossing

the boundary she lost time, life.

Bonds made there shrivel outside.

This is the price

of poverty.

Something missing

in every conversation, a knife

when well meaning relations

ask Why. She couldn’t

belong anywhere

but the bottom

line.

The golden thread

tethering a grand illusion,

beautiful people living high,

believing their altitude grant sight,

but in her callused, aching hand

that knife.

Arthritis

To the clinical observer,

it’s the frankincense, turmeric,

cayenne, and clove oils suspended

in beeswax, absorbed

on contact.

I sang A Mhaighdean Bhan Uasal

over my double boiler as the first

night mare winds drove down

from the north. Cats’ tails

lashing at the screen door.

Lavender front room,

white pumpkins and sage foliage,

champagne and darkest blue.

You’ll sit at the dining table

while I finish the current chore.

I’ll ask about your week

so I know where it hurts.

Once you laugh a little, I warm

the salve in my palm.

Keep talking

so you’re not embarrassed

when more than just your hands

melt into my touch. Lingering,

as the oils absorb

on contact.

Rusty Hinge

Go to ground.

The lowest point

caught in a bad dream

is the exit.

Places a waking mind

would assign unimportance,

peripheral.

The path is a spiral,

sheds its skins as you follow

it down, down. It closes in

on you, swallowing.

Tight, unknowable, forgotten,

unassuming as a spider’s

trap door.

Unreality

You can’t save people

or change their minds,

they barely even dream.

Go outside.

A human

needs to grow food, tend animals,

reside near running water, and cuddle.

That’s it.

What’s done will take

hundreds of years to mulch out.

That’s Her business, yours

is making amends to pigeons, rats,

raccoons, and weeds. Fault

is not the same as responsibility.

Meet your neighbors

grasping the toxic scraps

of your passive hostility.

Do right by them

if the rest is too scary.

Put out some soil. All

that’s required for life

to succeed, is for you

to step aside.

Pruning Shears

You killed him,

more good dead anyway,

can’t get off to his deeds

if it’s maggots.

Picking holes in your cloth

because you feel bad?

Or because you don’t?

Let that shit go.

Heaven is a place you know,

here and now, there is no after

life, only perpetual becoming,

missed for all that running.

Stand your ground.

A nightmare becomes a dream

when you pass judgment.

Come to the Altar

Cynicism is just cowardice

with a PhD, babe you know me,

spade’s a spade’s a patriarchy.

No patience for weakness

or posturing. That don’t mean

you’ve nowhere to sleep, your silly

scuffs kissed clean. It’s not hard

to do the right thing, when right

is your woman fighting.

Too many chiefs, not enough warriors,

as if your hurt’s a match for Hers,

or hers or hers. What’s holy

is your heart wholly in her hands.

Well chosen, she knows the weight

of command,

yours a shape she understands,

a spirit of her house.

Magic Mirror

The worst men do’s been done

or lustfully imagined, the best yet born,

they’re not the creative sort, cannibal

species on a suicide course, correction

not complicity, mongrels left to freeze,

stop bringing them to bed just

because they’re half house broken

or you’re bored. Clutch some token

fiction boy, bitch that’s idolatry, see

standards at the slaughter up and down

these streets. Bitch he ugly.

Not an Abuser ain’t personality.

Catch the clap off that plague stick,

make your girl seven kinds of sick,

he’s not funny he’s just loud and a prick,

that’s right I said it,

bestie on read to ride with that,

finishing yourself ’cause you ride that.

Tip of a Glacier

Bard is a combat class,

words are weapons when you’ve got class,

and daddy did raise a princess said

I’d never need to raise a hand

to end him where he stand, any man.

He asked me to be kind,

and I did learn at his knee all

about diplomacy. How to read

a room carefully as leaves

in a teacup.

But comes a time a promise made

amended, I think deep before

I speak, I’m no duelist me.

I’m an assassin.

Beware the Bright One

Hope, she’s a killer,

make no mistake,

she clears the field,

death strewn in her wake.

She wields Survival,

an obsidian blade.

Only who need her

can truly know

without destruction

there’s no room to grow.

No choice but to feel this,

no choice but to fight,

nothing but savage

through darkest of night,

you’re not just holding,

you’re advancing the line.

Only the strongest

thrive at her side.

Her eye is exacting

not easy to please,

come to her honest

if it puts you to knees.

She’ll take your last,

she’ll take it all,

find her and kiss her

if you have to crawl.

Warriors avail

her softer half,

his name is Desire,

and if you don’t bed him,

you’ll never reach higher.

A man of his senses,

all full with her roots,

all bodies fallen

get put to use.

No fear of censure,

no fear of blood,

no fear of fire,

lightning or flood,

no fear of tomorrow

that may never come,

no fear of failure,

with his love be one.

It won’t be pretty,

but we’ll turn things around.

It takes a messy bitch

to hold a bad bitch down.

Himself

Well here’s what you won’t learn in church,

for all there’s a hidden song binds the universe,

and maybe we’re mated pairs dispersed,

and this attraction’s a matter molecular structure,

whose bonds be most attuned with yours?

Perfection’s no technical term,

heaven’s just a state of mind,

pleasure in company with your own kind,

and maybe you’ll meet someone like,

oh it was you all along

all along,

and family’s every creature She calls home,

where care be taken if seed be sown,

beauty be courted where skill be honed,

for all we see is what’s owed Her.

Sacrifice.

A man should go to his woman

like he’s meeting his maker,

oh lesser tongues sure tried it first,

but your voice is casked honey and Mine Heart,

I’m well versed.