Quedesha

Your mother said, a drop of blood, does not bring death, not in your stealth, nor for your good, it merely slakes the bed, for sun, moon, the earth, it will bring no ruin, closer to your tread, for the ones who've left, persuade this one to soothe, things that fit together, if that makes sense, yellow sand, tidal flood, a late love at its crest, your house unending, patched and creaked by wood, mend your fences, before the dust.