Blowing at the double through the harvest sickle,
dearly-delicate-death deliverer you are coming quickly.
You are racing fervently so to take
all the light away;
we have all forgotten the creatures of shadows.
To the blossom you encroach and
to any late bud you say, Hush now, to rest with you.
Frankness becomes you as you have no time to waste.
To the lake you rush, chilling the surface into
the mirror so the moon may look upon herself at brightest.
You scorch the fingers of the trees and
lewdly shuck them free; to the damp of the roots
you take all things and then bury them under the coldest kiss.
Into darkness you sweep us all. Bitter and clacking
you entrust us to the empty air that yanks the breath from out lungs.
Hardening and rolling and silencing every grain
that presses together to keep life in
so you may not cut it all away.
Shiver all things do. You are the foreboding drum.
Wicked and wondrous you remind;
you tell us of our within by stripping all the world away.
To the din-dim with you. Your raspy voice
harkens us to the noble feet of gods
that only know how to love harshly.
Then, you go.
Benign you bend to allow us to gasp,
and easy you glide off, for humbleness is but the price you ask.
With a whisper, off to the deep you bleed down.
Lulling and sweet, you say,
I’ve done my part. But I must sleep for a little while now.
And so you groan yourself back to bones,
where you are locked up,
for another season. Yet, rattle us you will,
for pain is what keeps the sun so fine. You understand this.
Thank you kindly.