Handholder, you show me an open door, an empty bed armfuls of posies and lilies sicksweet smell of perfume with a gunpowder tang, choking as I swallow the tea you served.
Are you laughing or screaming at me, fire catcher, wind tamer, and is there something I'm too afraid to see in your orchard?
Do I fear you for good reason or in foolishness? Do I hear you or merely echoes in others' words?