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