(nine of pentacles, rider-whaite)
I wander the garden,
pruning dead branches,
pulling weeds—
Vines grow fat with grapes,
soon to be crushed into wine.
Is this all there is?
The falcon’s claws bite
into this leather glove;
there is nothing to fear.
I’ve stopped worrying
about the day’s trivia.
I know better now.
Another full moon
begins to wane in the west.
Inside, candles burn low.
(October 6, 2023)
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