Feverish memory, a mid-day nap, a late night echo

[dr_innate]

I felt like writing, this needs fixing, but this is what fell from my head to the keyboard:

You are transient, anchorless
but I am no nomad, no sailor
you are feral beauty

we lay behind the copse
embraced
the willow leans close
to hear us fitful
and hungry

a clubfoot hunter with no spear, no bow
I lose your trail, your scent

you have left me a wreath
that will winter the spring
a dry summer
and quicken the fall

next February I see your
prints left
drops of life
paled in the snow behind that copse
and a trail that passes the front porch

dryad, tell me
what seeds did you plant?