Poem: Hexennacht (April 30, 2020)
At the end of my walk
old wood leans on old wood
and the grass has already grown
In the verge I found a fawn lily,
petals hazed in a white glow,
downward facing, shy,
hiding as we all hide now.
I sit in the damp grass,
let the earth seep up to my skin.
The birds are singing; their lives
go on when ours do not.
Eve of the first day of summer.
How strange, then,
that we are the very body
of the season of dying.
All my works have been done;
I have burned my will to ash
and tasted it on my tongue.
This last long winter is the hardest.
I will be filled again,
but the grass will go on growing
and the rain will make us lush
and the summer will come,