Comfort me, can you, at Betty's creek near Beech Trail's edge? Herb gatherer, manroot, mandrake man, make of the auburn strands of my hair kindling, a coiled tinder. With flint, single flick

of wrist, start and tend a fire. Off! To the great horned owl's lament, slip off this cobalt-colored dress. With it winnow the flames higher. Blue dress—blue center of flame.

Incense of oakstem and leafmold, smoke from roots—you incant their Linnaean names. Heat everywhere, outside and within, rises—rill of blood and desire—rises like ladder rungs.

Herb gatherer, manroot, mandrake man, do you love this burning? Comfort me. You can. Savor salt, sweat, skin. Taste the ashes on your tongue.