July 20, 2011

Winter starts to dream again...


blood door (bonfires for the Moon and the Oak King)
the circulatory spirit
the divine wine
feeds in grains
strings out daylight
as a dry bed frog might
their weight in sway
cicadas burning the quiet of
midday in late July mirrored
ash comes alive
in the high points of the smoke
sees where every turn
tides what we feel
what peels down from where here is
and very near
where everything else drops
into little pieces
poaching themselves to gravity,
sometimes hanging
as the full summered leaves do
in their limbered stretch with
tomatoes bronchial branched
berry chanced plump
and vining time towards
the slow whip end of a Summer's day ,
the burst is almost imperceptible
amidst the lazy fawns of tall weeds
and the mad scurries of insects squeezed
hearing the death of another afternoon
in the swoon of lawn mower courtesans
and the long angles the Sun
calling home for our desires to return
from where our voices
near night and crawl
around in the shadows humming
at the low end of how things settle in
while the remains of this day
eats itself slowly
leaving fires in clay pots
and all those pooled whispers
waiting for Winter
to comb tree tops
and rooftops for the best seat 
to what the Moon rises with
in her splash and
surprises us in her tipped smiles
as we wait with
our cups attend
to be
filled and spilled
as we wait in the boughs
with our miles to go
and all the bends we sow
seeding our needs
we vow
to love
and grow