Shall I place the cards?
Let me paint my face
and raise my guard.
365 combinations —
or more.
Add some number
of moons and words.

Treadle the wheel
as seasons reel
high to low
and back again.
And I am damned
by my innocence.

Who would see himself
an ascetic?
(Strange aspirations.)
Decades-old betrayals —
committed or endured —
have led to this
defensive stance
and a stern,
composed will.

Holding it thus,
it becomes
the flame and the flood
that engenders
this creating.

Still —
do I yield
or do I fall?
(What could be worse
than not knowing
the damage we do?)

Better to turn back
with you
to the garden,
where the wheel
is minutely forged
into sun-driven
waxing and waning.

I fear time’s grim authority
and so seek
to drown in roses —
to balance on clouds —
but resolve
to act with stealth.
And in seven days
or in seven years,
perhaps you might pause
to hand me
the key to the moon.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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