A poem in chants for four voices:
[Demeter
Chorus
Persephone
Hades]
These are the seasons Persephone promised
as she turned on her heel,
the ones that darken, till green no longer
bandages what I feel.
In the winding
of the vine
our voices stretch
from us and twine —
No, going into the waiting places
is not easy. Flowers fade there.
around the year's
fermented wine —
Mostly, it’s surrender of wanting,
or the fear that a flame will be dampened—
or that everything warm will come rushing
over me with reproach—or that endless
needles could be ranged in the tunnel—
or that my bare feet would be slippery—
Yellow. Fall roars
down to the ground,
loud, in the leafy sun that pours
liquid through doors.
Yellow, the leaves go down
or that once I’m down in that darkness
someone outside will block off the entrance,
Touches of gold stipple the branches,
promising weeks of time —
Thread With Me [song]
My lover, when you riddle with me—
—to fade through, finding the footprints
she left as she turned to climb—
reddening slowly, then suddenly free,
turned like a key
Oh! the falling flowers have caught me
by dipping yellow, purple towards the hunger—
—the hard, the intricate dark
(I hear the notes of your words
ring for me cool as the birds,
my lover—
through the long year's
fermenting wine
her thin stems turning, held to be—lost—
my lover, when you thread with me
Now you are uncurled and cover our eyes
with the edge of winter sky,
leaning over us in icy stars
through this night-shot
night-shot dark
is never easy. Flowers fade here.
Voices pull me on through the cavern
from the new season. Her voice old, silent—
our hands, our breasts, our curves
curl through our hands and ravel—
Quick touches of gold stipple the branches,
promising weeks of time
On damp limestone, a violet curling—
my lover, when you riddle with me
the hard, the intricate dark.
Rack me with courage, spring,
come kill me, flowers;
if we are shadows, come;
make me our shadows
as I reach for flowers.
From Calendars