Troika

When I feel this way,
Nothing will do except that I have wood.

Wood in the strips dividing the window panes.
Wood in the frame of a picture on the wall.
Rotting wood birthing foxfire in the wild.

You are the wedge
Around which my heart is split,
Riven to its shivering core.

When I feel this way,
Nothing will do except that I have glass.

Glass the skin the rain crawls upon.
Glass the blanket over a sleeping portrait.
Glass the spirit jars hung from moody trees in the dusk.

You are the heat lightning
Around which my heart wraps, refracting
Colors where there were none, blood with no wound.

Listen...
The cuckoo kills, then sings;
The mother bird's babies on the ground
Like dead leaves.

When I feel this way,
Nothing will do except that I have water.

Water dappling the sill, like first signs.
Water rippling preserved paper against its backing.
Water falling from the oak leaves, into shadows.

You are the devil
Around which my heart curls
Like ashes, haloing the match that bore them.
_________

for One Shot Wednesday