Is it all of your own making Is it by design Will ham-fisting your heart Really make it start Will levelling the new shoots help Aren't the care-takers friendly You are the one weeping You are the spook in the woods Yours are the feverish eyes Little radical, it's you who cries When you cannot get the leech off Without salt Or fire When you learn it does not burrow Out of love But survival But you are not there yet You are deep in the woods In a house made of hide Lit from within You are desperate for wisdom What prowls the perimeter What noses the wind What stops, stalk-still Ancient and grim What must you keep from getting in Who must you not let in