STSAMV@aol.com 

                                             POEM FROM THE NORTH       

                                                              A
                                                      fragile finger
                                                    dressed in wood
                                                        reminds me
                                                          of taste
                                                            from
                                                              an
                                                      ancient womb.

                                           Was I green back then?
                                                       Did my tongue move fast
                                                                     to catch 
my food?

                                                                     Was the 
nest we used
                                                        to rest our heads
                                          covered in hair?

                                                    Dark, damp mud
                                                             from a
                                                        broken limb
                                                             longs
                                                              to be
                                                           touched
                                                            by the
                                                             wind.