DAILY The dark life remembers What it lives without. The shadowed psyche undresses Strewing torn garments Across grass, flattened by first frost, As the bone white sliver, Pushed by damp clouds, Rises in twilight indigo. The imagination unfolds, Excited by lost affection, hapless wounds, Careless words of what we idolize And demonize, What we pray for – then regret. Can new seed, dug down with care, Transmute this woolly life? Can wrists and palms bent back in surrender, Too vulnerable to hold the knife, Carry weight, or shape mudra, Yet lift skyward? Can fingers, once cupped carefully Around white stones of wealth, Tingle in glimmering rituals? What celebration seeds the dark life? Who carries the shadowed psyche to the teat Where it suckles the moon and the bone white breast?
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