Acorn Strong

The dry cake of burdens like bread,

the moss of flour grain, heavy

decision not to buckle, nor to weep,

but to face the frigid air

with grim solemnity

like hope

is the leaven and this oven is alright.

I gathered acorns from the yard

and brought them to your feet,

upon my knees and elegiacally declaring

that "Winter, my lust, has

blighted the harvest

prematurely, and our children are lost,

and the time that we tried

so hard to preserve

has perished invariably."

But I know you've buried,

long before even we wed

one to another and ourselves,

the corpses of birds, gathered

their flesh like dewy acorns together

and dumped them into imperfect graves,

leaving the gods to wreak their work,

and returning to the sink

to hurl and cry.

Indeed, I am not fooled

by your immaculate visage:

I know there are fissures and flaws

so far and throughout and across

your turbulent heart, tumultuous

woman, there is nothing I can do

save love you

as desperately as I am,

and renounce the petty offerings and signs

in pursuit, instead, of more

favourable goodbyes, more

respectable alumni passages

as suitable to village, country folk,

pleasant and idle,

broken and lost,

like children, like gods.