Father speaks to fern, crocus, moss (Croatia, 1999)

“I fail to feed your children

I,

mere stripling am

at-struggle with scree.”

Up from the valley grass to the saddle stone

He hungers

She thirsts

“I am nought but fern,

mine is a heart 

thin,

upside-down,

elusive.”

I can wring not these useless roots

For the clench of slate

“I am early crocus

I shall not last

following too soon the snows.”

I beg of bees

I promise them the boldest of queens

Would they but deliver

Sweet solace to the sun-stung lips

Of my children slender, stunted

“I am moss

bitter on the tongue.

Ready the children

for I,

I shall invert their stomachs.”