Friday, January 17, 2014


The time of the Mothers is winter,
   the time of the Crone
   with her age-old question at solstice:
"What have you done with your life?
    Which was the fatal wrong turn
     that let you to this juncture
this bed with cold shroud sheets?
     Chilled to the bone,
there is no answer at midnight or after.
      The clock is ticking,
      self important and squat
pleased with itself at the news
      that Time flies in one direction,
 an arrow shot in the forest
      as a hunter stalks by moonlight
      an enigmatic deer:
there, over  an ice-lake,
      into deep thickets
over a creek it is madness to cross,
     far from the lighted porch.

He will see it in every shadow
     in the wind and the snow
and travel great lengths to pursue it,
     and never find his way home

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