The willow waters sun the colour of churned butter
a cornucopia: marigolds in mouflon horns
the cabbage whites stay within the night.
Burgundian red Chronus felt your death in Tartarus
moon phases, harvests time there is time here is time now.
The Mysteries reveal themselves in that place between
wake and sleep. You’re afraid to go and you’re afraid to give.
The leaves let us know that we will fall when winter comes,
the world won’t notice us. The world cares only who we are
in the fall. How many cycles have you lived
seventeen thirty sixty-six you have to live each life
for the first time every death is a new death
every god the first god. A lone mountain ash
the only thing worth seeing in the fog red berries
the colour of the earth the sky the scythe.