A diversion of sorts

Beware my attempts at poetry.
I wrote this back during the winter for my father (psychosis, much?)

I.
I married my wife and not my children; question for tree:
does pollen belong to the flower, to the roots

roots to the soil?

II.
Fermented vine of delayed fruition
eight years long, vintage fifty-six - this coming harvest

moon.
III.
I will not beckon with hardened fingers, bend and
bind O Root, come home.
Veins never bound --- why start now?
IV.
I did not marry my children, green & budding writhing
upward trusting into darkness the life and

the shame of gray bodies.

© Caitlin Interruption