I plowed the eras back to see
your wagon stocked in infancy
          and I, the planter, braided dreams
    around your knotted hair to free
        the sky of your withdrawal transfixed
       too tight against the bric-a-brac tree
    the season grew and gorged themselves
           upon your sundusked dappled brow
        that once show pure and hadn’t felt
        the burrowed fears that furrow now

    If this be only fate that finds
  you bound with microscopic eyes
            that huddles deep within the blue
         of fraying means and sunless sighs
      I will through motherhood break seeds
  of crystal in your fettered whole
        and bring the empty lot of night
    to agate clear within your soul