mercy

the wolves cry love, that misguided
knife that cuts at the boundaries of sense;
with fear that runs up your back and
longing to move beyond comfort.


it is love that pierces the throat
of the winter starved doe, lost to the dream
of the first green. collapsing into the warm
spring of her blood, the final music of winter a long
ribbon of snow scraping over snow, the breath
of hope free at last outside the intersection of desires.