Fallow
 
Between full moons, the landscape
sleeps, gathering potency
into its wine-dark soil,
dreaming of the split seed,
the shifting patterns of light.
 
The furrowed boundaries
between us are deep, 
sliced into the turf. 
The verges are waiting 
to claim us. Before you go, 
let us marvel at this,
the earth’s resurrection 
from seed to bloom.
And back again. 
 
My love, my wolf, please stay.
Forget for a moment
how the night sky imprints 
desires on you
to walk the length
and breadth of possibility,
to trace the ridged spine
of the hills with a finger. 


First appeared in Flora Fiction Magazine