Oh Her voice, came back to me
in the masculine, as He
told me all that ought to be
in promises of Spring.

Vitruvian, in word and deed,
spun me as if I could see
the birth of sun-star's reckoning:
as I noted summer fruit

antedeluvian, I wept

relief the blossoms had not died
but were replaced with this, of mine--
I stood upon the hill and voiced
my pleasure that I made good choice
as I stood in solar cross
my chin in tilt my palms aloft:

"I AM" I whispered that I am.

I stood watch both night and day
and plucked the pestilence that came
from the branches, from the root
I guarded them as best I could
and Autumn came as a surprise -
chill wind storms of compromise
dried my sweat and sighed my sighs
as tears spilled secrets of my eyes
in the rushes of the change...

* * *

I weighed the olives, plucked the grapes.
The second harvest yield and Fate's
Fortuna stood in grim survey
pondering impassioned play
deciding I might go for three
if the churning inside me
could be championed once more
if perhaps the one green leaf
might be coaxed into belief
that Spring had come again to fields
as weary as I Am...

* * *

I'm fighting frost as I await
the bitter wind of Winter weight -
cautious curiousity
regarding taste and my own greed:

I will oil the garden gate.
I pray the first snow will come late.
My feet have worn a path and I
realize the compromise
I made when I had recognized
longevity means things will die
as roots of all things still alive

disrupt

my plans for graves.