Persephone's Feast Day
When all the names are gone
fallen like fraying leaves
before the coming of frost;
when there is nothing left
for memory to feed upon
November incubates
an unborn rhythm,
a silent heartbeat.
Perhaps all the wastes
of love and time
ferment their healing,
underground, here
in these Nigrado depths,
becoming at last Albedo,
the medicine.
But today, there is no valor
in this rooting among decomposing fragments
of so many lives.
I offer now bread, red fruit, red wine to life.
To the voiceless, the lost, hungry, and fallen,
to every transparent lover wandering
these grey Bardos in their solitude.
Come to the table all.
Here is a rich conversation
harvested from the last living garden
a dappled pear, an apple, a pomegranate.
a butterfly in its chrysalis, winged, moist,
the slow rebirth of color
deep in the depths of this dream.
The great Wheel will turn again.
The wheat has new life in it yet.
The blessing will still be given.
2 comments:
“Perhaps all the wastes
of love and time
ferment their healing,
underground, here
in these Nigrado depths,
becoming at last Albedo,
the medicine. “ X Mana
Wonderful poem and tribute to the most profound and deepest of myths.
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