Ther is a hunger, never dulled, which,
                                       unsated,
does not habituate, but retains
                                its honed and poignant
edge --
         as if it were a rapier seed
                                     planted in the desert
of a woman's soul, growing to spite
                                    the hardness of sky,
the crippling weight of
                        root-twisting rock, growing,
point-first, yearning
                       outward, sending tendrils in
supplication, to be seared
                            in the sizzled air;
growing still, in ancestral memory
                                    of rain, of dew, of
                                    cool, enfolding winter.
Growing slowly, forcing the needle point
                                          higher, through
flesh, and empty air, in silence,
                                  calling out with
crispened fingers to distant
                             forestlands, mute testimony
to the hunger, never dulled,
                             the need, unsated, which
                does not
habituate.