I live in the hut at the edge of the woods,
Yin-yang hair stark against leafy greens.
My pestle's worn deep into stone.
I'm all plump seed.
It is time to be both Wise and Wyrd.
Time to swell open
Under the dead madrone leaves;
Split, full of the winter rains.
My spine arcs towards the windblown sun,
My roots are worked way down beyond bedrock.
A beach, cold on a February night --
You'll find me dancing naked at the high tide line.