Thursday, September 2, 2010

After The Harvest

Candles burn, their fingertips
scent the room with wild grapes.

A woman pours through death
like water through cracked stone;
and silently she stains
the house in sorrow

while a hoop of vines
dwindles on the back door.
Birds consumed its fruit
long before she stole the garden's cord

and wove Autumn into something
oval like her face, her eyes
and nails shading a sweet skin
some holy man may kiss
but never acknowledge
as the touch of a sorceress.

No comments: