practising
08/14/2008 05:33 a.m.


The atmosphere in waiting
for Persephone’s steps; called from the shadows
by her mother’s rays (not really staying as
she sleeps aside the tulips dragon-toothed). Earth
kicks inside the biosphere, squirms atop Her hands:
warring daughter nascent and antique.

The unassuming bark and moss have left this young antique
that had so many years been waiting
to return its fallen fruit and leaves to the one who hands
and restores life in reaching, cooling shadows.
The bark and moss have long been ground into the prayers of Earth,
refining much which cannot be re-found while

you may or may not go, may or may not stay a while;
the windowless land is a structure more antique
than any more recent monument, ornamenting the princess Earth
tousled, spoiled and cruel from year-long waiting
who can blame her then for fetching shadows
so all the oceans darken beneath her hands?

She has sinned and so has lost her hands.
Barely flinching while
her wrists were bound and logged; she wore the crown of shadows
as if it were the gift of Hades’ forge antique
and not the premature seed of dark greed waiting
an admixture purged by the Earth.

Persephone falling once more leaves the Earth,
the sun’s special child with darkness in her hands
must teach herself for now her mother is waiting
for her daughter’s twin to rise for a while
since they may never meet else break the antique
lore, pushed and pulled from and to the shadows.

Why this, why place your faith in shadows
and not the things taught by the Earth?
(what we have called for long antique
a thing she scatters to the desert’s hands
countless times, evenly, while
people forget they are just waiting.)

Shadows in which leopards are waiting
soften now the Earth yet while
hands meet in an antique purpose.