The Killing Season
is upon us now.
The need for blood
stalks
every turning leaf,
Ragweed drooping
in sagging fields
at sunset.
A morning calm
is no match for lust
pounding
in a bloody heart.
It seems natural
this way we try
to master ourselves.
Autumn ritual
prepares
for winter – Sycamores
blush white,
Oaks redden,
streams coil
around sandy stone.
All of us feel
Time slipping.
For us Time
can do little more
than point
to December
that longest day
when thirst
is finally quenched
and full bellies
dream
of spring
budding again,
somehow,
from depths unknown.
I completely understand and “feel” these words. Time to practice with my bow. Gotta go.
Perfectly said. The hunters in my clan agree.
In autumn, the killing season, the hunter is called to stalk and slay the slipping away of time, to master the fear of the shortening day, to stake again the ancient claim of dominion over every living thing. If autumn is the killing season, the season of mastery and dominion, the season of the hunter, it is in part because winter is the hunter of us all.
Winter is the hunter of us all
tree stripper
it rips the fullness of limb and flow
leaving barrenness of ice and bone
silhouettes at dusk
leaf burner
it smokes the kindling colorfire from life
broiling green to red to gray to white
frost on ashes
swallower of light
it rises stealthy in dark of night
devouring great portions of the day as its right
afternoons in shadow
destroyer of life
it steals the dancing warmth of fluid force
storing once lively energy as future source
frozen streambeds
night caller
it beckons in starry crack of ice and ghost of moonlit wind
stirring ancient longings deep within
footprints in snow
earth splitter
it sends its frozen-ground-swell to divide
separating the inseparable life from life
cozy fires
Thanks for the inspiration.
I love it when Sycamores blush.