Wicker Tongue

Wicker Tongue


Dreams of dust did wake him,

When his consciousness did turn.

He leaned to her with tender love,

Asking questions that might burn.

These things, they come in threes,

as they gently trickle down.

With touching words, she answered,

Up above this bleeding ground.

"What take you, oh to laughter,

This denial--winter chill.

My soul was sent to whisper.

Clasp those hands, direct your will."

Live crimson in the pasture,

Oak leaf hands and wicker tongue.

When this charcoal breath did heal you,

Made you want to up-and-run.

Can I, now? And will I?

Tapestry is wearing thin.

Left alone in open field,

So where do I begin?

~t