Canticle for Samhain

Such a wind as ever
blew the down
of sheep in their folds,
 
that northed the mast
of autumn in the dome
& foretold they who go
green-shrouded
in the drab streets: bounty
 
of the harvest spilled
out their gaping mouths.
 
My lady dresses
the piggies as ghouls,
their little black eyes
are my little
deaths in this old brown season.
 
A tempered grace for each
of her still fingers, on
that morning where all souls
flock to her.  My sister
 
of no blood.  Gusts
blast the wreathes
from our necks, we'll
not enter that river
at last.  Gin berries
 
for the door, providence
crushes wine for wanderers.
Each street will embroider a name
on its lapel, when the uncertain
restaurants give flameless repast.
 
Do not go
into the west or east
but rather live here with me
in the crux of the compass
rose.  A wreath of
 
known herbs, a fetish–
spell for each
pretty thing: a feather
or a stone for a sling.
 Such a wind is
my brother, is
a nursery for orphans,
a bower for clockwork turks &
apparitions.
 
Each white prophecy,
each errant draught
in the letters of the alphabet,
my betrothed.
 
The dark eye is
the mother of changelings,
cousin to equations.
Shuck reason & have
its silver silk
for totem-hair: the cord of intent
for the bow of causation.
 
Strap a message to the claw
of the gone finch.
My mother obfuscation—
the language of the throat,
the writing of the fingers,
the bones & the frame of
endless deferral:
 
Shatters the glass of
Makes the sign of
Holds the gloss for
 
better regions—
the furnace of patience.