A great grandmother of a feeling has come on me tonight.

It drips

like unformed liquid

from my all to unaware skin.

Was it you

who held my hand

through the thick of the storm

and whispered such sweet things to me on this night.

I must confess

I was weary

of my many nights of travel

long ago

and I wished to take up roots


and rest

in a place where I could remain unharmed

by the dark clouds

moving east of my eyes.

I am unformed,

a masterpiece yet in progress

to smooth and dangerous to take hold of.

But you,

my silver archer

with the golden face,

I would not have expected this from you.