Don’t count to quickly who will be gone
Who should be fated, or lost
Deep are the darkening Skandic seas
Loath to be patterned or crossed
What calls from the depth of darkness
Is not always fragile or fault
These bones are formed out of mountains
This blood is anointed with salt
Assume what is there unspoken
Suppose that feeling means frail
But that which will bend won’t be broken
And a flower can drive in a nail

©Edwina Peterson Cross