It is too late in the season
for that amber disk
to do anything other than warm me.
Past the days of blossoms,
of seed, of attrition,
you are a blackthorn spring,
a sun, spotted with the nip of winter.
It is too late for the stretch of shadows,
for the buzz of honey
that fills your mouth when you breathe.
Here are the days of blossoms,
of seed, of regeneration.
of you, of unripe blackberries,
and the vines of my soul take root.
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The weather has been unusual for this time of year. It's as cold as the hand of death reaching out of a grave, but the sky is that piercing blue we usually only get in the summer. None of the plants have been fooled by this, and I certainly haven't been fooled. Just a little precipitation and we'll have snow.
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| Seattle, via airplane |
For the moment at least, it's got me thinking of summer instead of Christmas.