ravenous fingers are too soon satiated

and settle into slumber under the bones of the oak

they used to scurry like spiders

weaving beautiful silk webs under her skirt

she is now hollowed, without marrow, like the drinking gourd

too eagerly poured, molding sharp clay

into fertile soil

won't be long before she shatters

too worn and apathetic to be a lover

and who will shoulder blame?

the scornful sun?

the weight of water?

or the absent touch of her

beloved.?