Beest thou beautiful.

the song of the Southern Gate sings -- the light gilding the river, necklacing the Mother therein with flame. grass heads, heavy and full -- the grain of the wild, dotted with its flowers. the flame of the yarrow cutting the gloom of dusk.

night falls. mist hovers over the pond's mirror beyond the fringe of trees, columns of ghosts. we are alive, the red blood running, river of flame. the dark trees, fringed, sentries to a tower but not to silence.

the night sings, a cicada lust. birds trill their farewells, an opera of the senses as the brown moths flit, a crown.

and a thread runs, unseen -- palm to palm but not touching, not yet. cracking open the egg, giving a glimpse of my heart's yolk, gold as the sun.

the flame that does not smoke, that rises pure with the dawn. the lover of water, it crowns, dancing on its surface, on the blooms of the yarrow, the yawning day lilies. fullness, the summer's heavy scent, its hand through our hair, stirring the pale hairs on our limbs.

the gate is twined grapevine, and the Young Son sets it alight with his spear. a ray, a flame, a flower bloom, a desire that courses, a mirror that reflects, a love like water crowned with light.

beest thou beautiful.

my love, i set it
gentle on the muddy shore
on the flowing breast
of chance and day, a halo

from a hidden sun
behind a cloud, a shroud of
life or death. fate twists
her rope, snaps her scissors --

but my love, a leaf --
veined and intricate, eddies
in the current, now
with and now against the stream

under vines, trailing
the snakes of roots that threaten
to snag, on backs of
fish and otter in the blue

but your eyes turn. "just
a leaf, an old green thing," you
shrug. or not even that --
a leaf: unworthy of gaze.

and so it sails on,
little green boat of my soul
ambassador to
a world of stone and longing.

does it, then, wash up
on another pebbled beach?
does a careful hand
gently pluck it from the sand

and wonder at veins
that thread an unseen maze, or
a green hue out of
season -- trace its fate, its path?

i cannot follow
its path that threads like story
through the river mist.
the end remains unwritten.

(**from my Deirdre cycle. interestingly, the name Leabharcham means "twisted book" or "dishonest book," which plays into the meaning of the poem. i went with the Irish spelling here, although a previous poem in my Deirdre cycle uses the Anglicized "Leborcham.")

Leabharcham lies to Conchobhar
--------------
her face -- a riverbed
in high summer, webbed with
grief that cracks as mudflats,
and cattails of hair hang

ragged and gold, yet shot
with tarnish. skin is bark
sloughing on the hard ground
strained by a drought of joy.

the very image of
the Cailleach, blight's white crone --
spring's bud blasted by
the hard wind of regret!

leave her to her bleak home
in the leaf litter, man --
a warrior should have
a beauty like sunrise.

such i tell you, old friend.
with my Druid tongue, i give
the unaccustomed lie
to king stag in his hall.

and why? for the twigs in
my crane bag have always
their alphabet of
truth, although twisted, bent

as winter's brow, as my
own hag hand. but here -- here
is what i do not say,
what i deny you, king:

that love's laughter lights her
hair, her green eye, her bird
of a soul -- firing her
brand, a star in the dark

as his arms, circling, sweep
her from the grass's green bond --
a whirl of air and sun,
desire, dream and sunrise.

no hardship can chip it --
no grief can cage a soul
fledged to freedom in the
blue with its mate soaring.

but see -- the words i twist
do not lie so much, king.
they are but a vision
if she had stayed with you.

pink mouths clamber
up the stalk, an ancient grief
etched on tongues -- ai ai ai --
by a god's fanciful finger.

a gift the color of wan dawn
on February's fainting couch.
petals pass through finger pads
telling losses like beads,
an abacus, a mala of griefs
on frozen soil.

but not alone in its
disconnected earth, its sheath
of green paper: forsythia
branches mouthing and falling
in a scatter of gold, as sentries

and the bullish heads of
crocus, with saffron serpent
tongues darting from their jaws.
a hothouse spring hovers
by the pane, a temple incense.

beyond, the snowfield:
the white weight stamping down
the bulbs, the wanting green
in waiting while an old
gold ribbon flutters

on a stripped lilac. and in
the world edged and glittered:
small footprints pattern the white
spelling the raw fact
of hunger.

Dear Mr. Groundhog,

it's a nice little scam you've gotten going, i admit. but i have your toothy little number.

saw your shadow today? bullshit. the sky is a gray sheet this morning, matching the gray of slush on the ground, with nary the daystar to be seen. unless you're vacationing in Vegas or see your shadow in any sort of weather other than the utter blackness of midnight, it's freaking cloudy out today.

but i have your number -- the contest is fixed. it's always six more fucking weeks of winter. that's right. know why? because it's six weeks to the fucking equinox, when astronomical spring begins.

you are merely an excuse for the residents of a backwater town to get together, wear top hats and groundhog costumes, and drink themselves silly at dawn, before settling down to a day of Billy Crystal movies. as if anyone really needs an excuse to partake of any of those activities.

much love,
kwannon

p.s. if i see you in my garden again this year, i'll pop a cap in your ass.