yield
A year is an arc, a swath cut
deep into the earth. Mud and ice,
clover, violets, dust and dew
occur within. Days fall, a steady rain
of pebbles down the steep sides,
grit so fine it chafes the lungs,
rocks as jagged as hasty lies.
I have walked from June to June,
barefoot and sweetly shod.
No matter. The stones still bruise.
Sand finds its way into my bed.
Sun and storm pursue my share
of sky, duel above like lazy gods .
In these twelve months graves
have blossomed, flat as fungus,
spread their spore-like, rotten
flowers, an unavoidable plague.
Joys are harder to define,
closer held. I dare not speak
of them. Gems so precious stir
the greed of trifling deities.
A year is a song, the descant
honed and smooth. I hear it
in the ryed wind. It swings
like a blade, closer, closer.
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