so lent my tongue to red weedy blooms
and with Winter Mother still and cold
Sawed and planed her coffin rooms.
I had more to go than my feet had bones
so lent my skin to a spring-stormed road,
a cowbird child from a nest of stones
by an April wind to the May field sowed.
I had more to dream than Night could carry
so lent my skull to Mare in trade
for a poppy dream of elderberries
and a jar of poisoned marmalade.
I had more to die than Death could sanction
so lent my trick to an urn of smoke
and hid there in sly satisfaction
tucked like a babe in Lugus' poke.
for Sunday Muse # 155.