I taste the Still <br /> of hibernating beasts <br /> the bristled fir <br /> that clings to jagged claws <br /> the ragged claws <br /> that groan for guttered caves <br /> the lonely howl of wolves <br /> convulsed to find <br /> the orphan whelp nursing <br /> at clicking berries <br /> cracked from winter's eyes <br /> and I <br /> the Mother of these howling pleas <br /> split silently <br /> within my twisted need.<br /><br />Ann Creer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ma-terre/
