In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Samuel Taylor Colderidge
Hearing the black bird and willow moan,
I came about her in the wood. Her slim bones
draped in a gown of mist. Her hair the falling sun.
She gathered leaves, bark, and stones, the makings of an altar.
I was all silence, breath trapped inside a tower
wanting to sing away this vision. Salve, Salve the thought
was spun from save into salutation. The way she leaned,
laying her hand over the forest floor, made me crave the earth,
what sprang from its roots. Her skin white as its mushrooms
almost glowing in the evening glade. And what grew from that,
keeps growing inside my soul like mold. Lust, love, a condition
that cannot be cleansed or denied. Only burned.