I know nothing: not the way to snap plants
into salves, not the powers of quartz
buried under the garden. Not the way home.

It is your blood that carries the copper, strikes
heat from the storm. Your fingers make flint
of bone. What can I give you?

Only you know what brings galloping horses
to bleed the field at sunset. When you sing prayers
tonight call them home:

mustang, stallion and steed. I will watch you
tangle their billowing manes; I will be still
in that fire.