Desperation

I am the flower of

who knows what buried log

that to be alive

creates children

up from the dark

womb of the earth—

I am an icy flower—

estranged

from every human mercy or prayer

and the air around me

is empty—

breathless—

shaded

by mournful cypresses—

O who will give to the flower

to its painful corolla

the final strength

to bury the self?