DAILY When the cold rules
I lean skeletal against skies sullen in wetness.
I have gone under, within the marrow,
Where the great heart rules,
Pulled from the ground before freezing
To fill out the form of life to come,
Not to defeat the dying,
Or what others say of shape-shifting
For my shape is source, not fashion.
My leaves, torn from limbs,
Shimmered red and orange lights,
Wooed the darkness,
Depart in a festival of sacrifice
To dance at the Gates of Heaven.
Forlorn fingers reach, a mother for her children,
Anguish of emptiness where fullness grew.
This different life, this spiraling core,
Is the Crone’s turning
Her velvet storehouse winter’s deepest secret.
Is the earth wearied by this surrender?
If ever there were a love story
If ever the soul might speak
It speaks here for bleak, cold gifts
And prayers barren of demand.
To meet headlong
The awaited annihilation.
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