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.