A Wind-Scattered History of Fallen Leaves
Turn the page, and burn the words.
The voices call from the edge of the wood.
Who can blame the one who falls into it, tangled in the roots.
The brambles tug at your elbows, and whisper words spoken by the royalty of old, given to those found at the crossroads.
The rainclouds earnestly fill the puddles at your feet.
Blackbirds beckon you back from a foolish turn.
The line of your neck tells the wind to blow across your path.
The King of your own country, found within, won’t accept less than a box filled with ashes.
The Queen will weep and cast your prizes about you. Gather them up:
The blade.
The mirror.
The jewel.
You’ll never lose them again.
Look up at the fire in the sky. It comes to you that this happens,
every
day.
And old lies go down in the smoking ruin of the day.
No longer will he, in the coat made of hair, distract you from the treasure regained
at the cost of the thawing of a frozen sea
found at the mouth of your long hidden sorrow
a multitude of arrows find their mark at last
though he, in the coat of hair, gnashes iron teeth
the obsidian tips bury themselves deep in your heart
each sob pulls them in deeper
like keys they unlock all the oceans of the world.
The hawk may hurt your shoulder,
as it finds a seat there with its talons
but it will never leave you again.
The bees at your lips
will feed on the honey
now pouring forth from the parting there
and save their stings
for the dark eyed shadows
who no longer will reach out for you unbitten.
Display your thousand wounds
silent you hear them
in chorus they sing the hymn
that ensures the dawn
will come after the belly of the night
has eaten its fill.