my lover
fashioned from old dirt
and bones buried
broken and brittle in the earth
painted so sparingly in gold
she is chipping all of such a thin coat
my lover
would start to wither, watered wine
I take her pains, tithing my time
her scent as sycamore and pine
to cut the wormwood from her twine
I love her
I will be with her, if it's fine