I was a thorn rushing to be with a rose, vinegar blending with honey, a pot of poison turning to healing salve, pasty wine dregs thrown in the millrace.
I was a diseased eye reaching for Jesus’ robe, raw meat cooking in the fire.
Then I found some earth to make an ointment with
that would honor my soul, and in mixing that, I found poetry. Love says, You are right. But do not claim credit for those changes.
Remember. I am wind. You are the ember I ignite.