Your sorrow breaks the well soiled edge
Yet it is of absolute invitation.
The soil edge which will engulf a thousand and one orphan seedlings
— There will always remain room for another;
In the hearts of those that love You.
I invade my flesh interior the soil; a parasite
And bear my fruit, cowbird like.
Because I can bear them no longer from my own
My arms burrowed in the earth
I sing to my abode
Where all my layers can become reeds
All my limbs can become trees
All my children can become me
What a mess I leave