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Poem	Dark cypresses-- The world is uneasily happy; It will all be forgotten. --Theodore Storm Mother of roots, you have not seeded The tall ashes of loneliness For me. Therefore, Now I go. If I knew the name, Your name, all trellises of vineyards and old fire Would quicken to shake terribly my Earth, mother of spiraling searches, terrible Fable of calcium, girl. I crept this afternoon In weeds once more, Casual, daydreaming you might not strike Me down. Mother of window sills and journeys, Hallower of searching hands, The sight of my blind man makes me want to weep. Tiller of waves or whatever, woman or man, Mother of roots or father of diamonds, Look: I am nothing. I do not even have ashes to rub into my eyes.
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