Never let him build

a house of you, my dear.
He would steep in you, forever
train you dark and bitter (See
the stain ring!) unless you pull
the string, wring him out from time
to time, and point toward the sea.
Remind him you are no house,
no fragile cup, but rain soaking
needles, the mother of cones
spreading seeds, a lover of heat,
waiting for fire to scorch
and breed what you drop.
You are the work of green.