All Hallow’s

near miss…

There could be no summer child.
Something arrives and takes root
which I cannot bear.
The heron haunts a diminishing water
and the world has turned
to fool’s gold.
Wind’s unsettled
as the dry grass.
And I too am shaken,
scarred and bent as the crone.
Dearest, it has grown too late.

Stumble into weeds and woods.
Too soon for size,
too soon for bone,
and for blood besides my own,
give it up
to the green man’s winter.

We make ourselves vulnerable,
sickened and lessened —
but the predators can feel
a holy rite
in the deep, wild way,
and pass us by.

And we will give up
every precious thing.
But maybe we will see you
in dreams


About Emily

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

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