September
tempering the year
forever pressed between two lives
an Aster in bloom
confused for something full
and too soon plucked
red faced exile in an unused book
bleeding into the words of dead men
who denied you your due
I was born with the knowledge of you
delivered into the limbo of a seasons ungraceful end
to wait for the beginning of death
not as we all do
but as women waiting for love
sister, mother
I carried you in my blood
heart filtering everything
but the fever of my wild intuition
a knowledge of something more illuminated
than the stained pages of man's sanctity
my small female hands touched the Earth
like a baby, pushing out
at the walls of its mothers womb
never wanting to leave the peace
that comes from finding oneself fit
attached to the world like a vital organ
you and it requiring one another
a fleeting sensation when time insists on turning
wavering like the memory of pain after the fact
which they say, we retain little of
moonlight poured abundantly over sightless eyes
but with the knowledge that it is evening
everything moves
to the ceaseless rhythm of death
the maid dancing knows that she will end
as the crone
withered into nourishment
for the boot heels of next year to press
I caress you still
sister, mother
I am in love
with this
a moment on the wheel
briefly spun into life
the fall
allows us to become whole again
to forever find ourselves beginning.
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