Somewhere between head and heart and need,
The place emotions stir to life, at rest
In bone and flesh, that fertile, awful seed
That pulls clenched fists to helpless chests
And brings such useless rain to barren ground,
Unwanted yet it grows. It chokes out all
That is to come, all that would be found,
And leaves within this tangled life a pall.
But now a time to rest, a time to weave
These woven lines of rhyme, to simply wait
Among the weeds, unable to believe
The forces willed to bring us to this gate.
Her garden waits, her sleeping roses stir
And beckon through this haze, this brutal blur.