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restitution
in the quiet
noise of night –
under the slow turn
of stars,
the grassed hill
dreams herself
forest. -
february
and though morning came
hot and full
and ravens skimmed
the blue nothing
wings circling the tipping moon
pale in the early sky –
it was the evening
that breathed us,
night skin
singing sweet
with rain. -
molt
do you think
i would try
to bewitch you –
do you think
i would come in hagskin
if my intention was to mislead.
shed me
and shed me again,
i have no secrets
you have not known
since your heart was forged
by the fire of creation.
peel back this skin,
there is nothing underneath
but that which always was.
constant and unwavering
as the stars.
Image by Steven Hurt. -
lupercalia
with blood of goat and milk on fleece
the year turned its frost hoared eyes to life
while salt prayers were spoken to listening gods.and the she-wolf raised her resting head
unfolded those myth born limbs,
gifted her scent, rank to the wind,
as she walked the festooned streets –
blessing the young and with child.she listens still.
sleeping soft in the dust of centuries,
waits for our words on the wind.Read a lovely piece by Tamarisk Glogauer here about the relationship between Valentine’s day and Lupercalia.
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revealed
if it was silence that called
these words into being,
which word
could restore that silence.could talk of wings
lift our fallen sky
any more than
talk of tomorrow
could plant trees.when words sit heavy
as stones on our tongues
it is our deeds in the world
that lay bare our hearts. -
commute
in the soft haze of summer
we drove that evening road
of lake and dune and ocean –
mountains banking purple
and infinite to a fading sky,
as if the world had not risen
to meet us in this perfect now,
as if the roosting birds in flight
did not touch wing tips to still water
reflecting sky.
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lament
and when the petals fall,
as fall they will,
and the days turn
their promise to seed,
seep their sweetness to soil,
let our breath
learn
the song of the season.
the slow lament for beauty passed
and the joy of life
becoming. -
monday morning
beyond the push of clock
and chase of this world
the morning still counts
in slow light
touching windows,
turtle doves walking dew trails
in the grass
and the impossible
perfection of time
marked by the opening of lilies
curled petals unfolding
to the sun. -
agrimony
as swiftly as the night,
flitting soundless with moth-wing,
vanishes at dawn.
so too this child,
carried mute unspoken for years,
slips into my waking world
part girl-child, part woman, half-formed.
asks me to name her
and keep her from harm. -
eating the light
Multimedia drawing by Steven Hurt long before dawn broke
the world into matter and light,
and mountains took form from the night,
birds began waking the trees,
singing stomata open and leaves unfurled –
ready to taste first light.