The hammer rests by the forge today. The shoulders drop an inch, then two. It is the sound of the pottering, the tea, the quiet home that says: the nectar is already here. A seed is not a worker. It does not strain to be a flower - it simply unfolds because the soil is warm. I give the ache to the flame - the tightness in the jaw, the lie of the lone wolf, the old story of the arid ground I leave it for Brigid to turn into ash. And in the space that remains… there is La
