A Weekend with Demeter

Cold rain spits ice-knives,

Grass-shards rise to drink fresh life;

You and I are one -- tonight.

Painful awareness

Of foggy breath circling

Smoke filled breaking cold.

Empty wine bottle,

The casualty of the night,

The too-brilliant bright

Light of caustic peace --

Whispered stories in the dark

Tell of spastic myths:

Pecan trees are hard

To tear down in winter's snow;

Can we wait til spring?

"The sowing, baby."

Nothing is permanent, true.

Let's build a structure --

Something the cynics

Can cling in the dull dark,

A decent story

Maybe, even. I'll

Call it irony;

The bomb-burst consciousness

Shocking tulkus free.

I'll call it a fork;

I ought to be in Golden

Or else Estes Park,

Buying a gram.

I'll call it decent;

Patterns are built to tear down.

Anyway

Let's be here, now.

Let's worry about the sowing some other day,

Fumble through the details

Derailing the simplicity.

Dreams don't end, darling,

If one never endeavors

To wake; let's be here,

Let's be now, sockless

Toes curl in bright ecstasy

And all is color

And light, here, tonight.