Bring what you have
to the edge of our bed;
your hands filled with stones
and shells- a souvenir.
I have no place
in the natural world,
the world you struggle to
design. See, there are no roots
to grasp the soil, no vertical
rows of blooming vine. Perhaps
I am the fallow field, quiet, cold
and empty. And of my soul, memento
of the passing years, what glory
will it grow, when it is worked
and tilled and planted?