Ice floes bump and drift
off the shores of Reykjavík
above dark blue depths, statues
in the cold half-light.
They shift like the gray slivers
in your eyes, slipping in and out
of shadow.
Their cracking and groaning
makes a melody of highs
and lows, shaking in the air
as if blown through the channels
of an icy harmonica, sweet
as the sound of your voice
or the sheen of dawn
blooming like a rose
on your blond hair.

I have been slipping seeds into your food,
watermelon, apple, anything I think you might not notice
and some you may.
I sprinkle sunflower seeds onto your salads
and bake you those of pumpkins.
You see, I hope they'll grow.
More than that, sometimes I slip in bits of dirt
when I cook your meals.
I encourage you to drink more water,
insist we venture outside more in the daylight.

I know you're growing bored with me;
I sense that you want to part,
but I can't let you go.
So I will poison you with seeds until your plan to uproot our relationship is conquered by mine, to cultivate roots inside you.
They will spread out,
branches bursting from your ears and nose and mouth,
until they erupt through the soles of your feet.
And then I will curl up under your shade
and sleep,
safe in the knowledge that now you will never leave me.