She is the poison luck
of long dark January.

I am the apple core
de-fleshed by sharp teeth.

She is the noon hour
when the light is low.

She is the white muse. 
I am the crow of sunrise.

She is a spindle of birch branch
hanging as in a death.

I am the root of hemlock
shriveled in a twisted wind.

She is the long primeval valley sleeping
under a galaxy of bones and bleak truths.

I am the lies the stars tell to the eyes.
She is the comfort of needles.