True

In the winter I learned how to braid my hair,
and how not to reel again
at the promise of true lovers

In the winter I ate only herbs,
and in hibernating from savoury tastes
I alarmed my mother

I never favoured long country-man hair
not bound, but hanging limp
over their shoulders

I want to say,
where is my place
to lean against your borders

And the harsh cold wind,
(despite what it is)
feels like it's trying to wrap its arms around me

And the harsh cold sea,
in the act of drowning
feels like it's loving eternally

And when I burn
the words that I write
for you on drifting scraps of paper

I feel the flames licking my feet
as if it were trying to pick me up
and for hours, kiss me sweet

and I pray I never see you again,
for I may just fall right back in love
with the grace of your hand

For I never did once
doubt my unfailing love,
but rather the words in my head.

This winter I learned
to boil water for baths
and turn my hair into art

My mother did laugh, holding me close
and whispered
"I've bought you a harp."

And so this winter, as it
fades into spring,
and the only thing left is you

I'll be cawing and calling through the
dark aching mist
singing "Do you love me true?"

Like a broken young sprite
with a harp in the night,
I'll be loving you true.