Each delicious autumn finds me more reluctant to pick the bitter herbs. As all the earth grows slowly older my womb aches with longing. Gossamer thistles float in the light of the harvest moon on the first Nights of the Lingering Frost. Thick sheaves in the orange gold moonlight wave their laden tassels in the sharp cold winds of autumn. Surrounded by dark furrows, trapped in decaying desire, I watch the moon set beyond pine needles on a distant bough.
Blue night spreads down the ridge, the calm of blue lies in the solitude of rocks and trees.
She turned her head and saw God. He had been there all along. She gave Him the two stars plucked from her eyes. He showed her the scars on His hands. Above the burnt blue sky she paused, opening the ultimate.