Meditations, poetry

November Bones

Now is the time 
when earth cracks her skirt like a whip 
and sends her dress up in flames
 
The place where she strips down to her bones 
and dances fiercely with the stars 

Where instead of bundling up against bitterness 
she throws down her ashen cloak 
and covers ground with softness 
as air-akin as moth. 

Where she turns her naked face 
to the outer dark 
seared by stars and eyes 
of owls with sight so keen
no mouse is safe 
in its warmest, most secret, 
most carefully padded nest 

Where all the labor of harvest comes to naught 
and death flies on furred wings across 
winter steal
to grinning, starry heights 

Where she pauses to sing among bare barked trees
that glow brown as dove breasts, 
and mauve as dusk, 
“It has ended! It has ended!” 

Then she rests, mute and hard, seemingly for eternity
before she has to put her shoulder back 
to the sun-warmed, moss covered, 
millstone of life.

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