Blood & Moss

Down go the busy bloods of summer
see them – No! FEEL them sinking –

and from its rusted sleep, the creeping dampness now ready
to read from its pages

familiar tales of tucking up tight
cut among misted covers

the stories we saved are all here –
remember, in your looking

There! There hangs a smoke chain, rising, and on it
a bow to take between bloody thumb and mossy finger

and in turning the seasoned clock to a promise of the first spring shadow,
before the last of the still airs merge with fiery ways and daring laments

our teeth sharpened and soil spent
we take our rest