(four of swords, Rider-Waite)
The trees, exhausted and crisp,
drop leaves into summer heat
as perfunctory offerings
to unforgiving gods. A red mist
rises from fresh flesh in the bowl,
leaving a dry remorse to feed upon
as I grow old and frail, and any
residual laughter left falters.
Unlike an old bear hibernating
through a slow winter’s thaw;
nor dormant grass growing
green again after summer’s heat,
I fall into language knowing,
even now, it is not enough.
(September 12, 2023)
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