the miserable gardener

coyote

it rises.
it falls.
it drives.
it plunges
into my arms,
under my hand,
falling into my eyes,
driving, stinging against my face.
stone basins spill over.
black boughs sway & shiver.
a magpie alights–
black boughs shed
cold drenching drops.
water rising into my arms,
pushing smoothly against my breasts.
washed away alive, we are
swept away, calling.
we are
inundated,
we are drowned,
we pray for water,
we worship the source.

it beckons.
it cleanses.
it purifies.
it is the conduit
through which the earnest offerings
of my soul are delivered.
the hearts of deer
do not satiate it.
the hearts of wolves
will not appease.
luring sparks spin upward
from Samhain bonfires,
immolating the wild moths.
continuing the practice
of metallurgy & alchemy
with stolen fire, we are
less masterful than we believe.
we are
enlightened.
we are outrun.
we are consumed.
we are transmuted.

it caresses.
it is the Voice.
it lifts.
it abrades.
a vehicle of dissemination,
carrying fragrances & frequencies,
beguiling swaying lovers,
urging the misdirection of my steps–
misleading, laughing, pushing.
on that “island of wind & airs”,
lark song rings down
from the excruciating
blue vaults.
the truth of freefall is
of very brief human survival.
stepping off, we learn we are
not eagles, or hollow-boned.
we are
seduced.
we send our messages.
we yearn for others.
we are left alone, clinging.

(Pictures and poems by Cindy.)