I.
I must go now down
to the cold realm the moss realm
the earth realm where our spines
are inexorably disassembled
by the knobby patience of roots
there is no glow there
but nevertheless every solstice
the room fills like an empty cup
with the memory of light
II.
you are wise sister carrion
to have so surrendered
yourself to the hunger
of those who outlast you
III.
I will walk you hand in hand
wearing your good shoes
to the throne made
of golden shadow
when I return up-ground
I will light for you a daffodil
bright as a vigil candle
IV.
look at the wet stone
like ripples the play of the chisel
the frogs croak by the small pond
the tail of the wren flicks like a switch
her whistle by turns
amorous and mournful
V.
though I called
the raven did not visit
Spanish moss like furry caterpillars
crawls all along the branching elm
the mourning dove as always
is louder than expected
where she roosts in the old old oak
another year has decided
to unwind itself
may I keep pace enough
to weave myself
a blanket of the clouds