The end of summer
BonesIn the winter
things are reduced
to essentials. We see
the bones of the land, the bones
of trees, the stark elegance
of the underlying structure
of life. And we see the frailty
of our own soft flesh, the brittle,
yet lasting structure
of our own bones -
our bid for eternity.
on the earth, bitter
black frost, and a winding sheet of snow
upon her withered breast, and
deep within me, dread
I donít know what she wants -
Encircled by dark trees, icy in their wintry death
I see her face, ancient, wise
The lucent blade, sharp-edged, cuts
And I am daughter
I have given myself, my heartfire
March WindsLast summerís pine cones
lie in the new-springing
grass. Brown upon green.
The pines whisper their secrets
to each other, but the oaks
stand silent, still sleeping, buds furled,
in this between-time which
is not winter, not spring.
And I find that my own heart
resonates with this -
caught between a cold
and wintery grief and a
burgeoning spring. I keep
trying to make the jump,
but Marchís bitter winds
thrust me back.
'Pneumonia' and 'March Winds' were first published in Otherworld Arts, January 1996.
'Initiation' and 'Bones' were published in In The Crone's Shadow, 1995.
Please see the book list for information on all of these publications.
© Copyright 1995/1996 by Jessica Macbeth. All rights reserved.
Your comments will be read with interest.
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