Planting Stone
To simply be the stick spun
in the mud—
twine intertwined
in my crevasses bound
to your stability.
Craving to twist
between your arms,
as you have in mine;
Desperately clawing
for stem strength
within a single pot.
Leaves crawling
up our crystal like image,
thornes peeking
through each one,
any swift breeze
could shatter
what took so long to chisel.