It was you who wove me
of blackberry vine and wandering rose,
I did not ask to be ripped from the woods
it was only what you chose:
a bundle of brambles, the twisting of twine
gave shape to this form of mine
half merely man, half merely clod,
I did not ask to be shaped like my god
nor to wear this flesh of thorns
from your careless fancy –
all I touch is torn.

Leave a Reply