And she shall have music wherever she goes
The coming of winter is the coming of a grey-haired woman
in the midst of treasure, her hands buried in the golden twine of hair.
She’s a long December of moon-made rites and mirrors, only her
sighs keep the cold at bay. Out in the fields, stalks of well-fed crack the spine
with the length of their demise. We’ve all been promised something.
The ferns are good for hiding, their slats for speakers.
The wood keeps falling out of my hands, even as I stroke
it into song. My thighs know the beat of this falling tune,
the sound is the sound is the sound whether I walk or scythe or fuck
winter’s woman into coming. We’ve all been forgiven something.
Bring me your wheat, your golden heads.
Bring me your tomorrows, your safe passage.
Bring me your bellies, empty of sweet.
The story’s been told wrong.
I don’t mind the work, but I mind the silence.
You can gather the grain.
I’ll be busy