the year is dying

bring me fire, wine a dancing throng
pyre piled dead wood high
pruned hard this seasons’s dormant depth
light’s long labour so begun
a twinkle in our eyes
we mark in hope this dark gestation
with fire, wine, dancers thronging
our dead wood high piled pyre
smile hard this season’s dormant  joy
life’s long labour dying
a twinkle in your eyes
tears frost this winter revolution
once again our tail is eaten
sing me fire deep to flame’s extinction
sleep will mark this day
certain of a darkling wisdom
deciding who, what, may crawl
toward the ever turning glimmer
prayerful we may bring ourselves
again toward such sacramentals
as fire, wine, dancing throngs
the song of life’s labours crying
green wood high even as its dying
pyre piled from life’s reach
wine dance fire throng
twinkle all our eyes
feel what has gone
what is
to welcome well what is reborn
however in this cosmic throng
give fire wine all dancing
the wood ring growth of every year
piled higher higher on fate’s pyre
dreaming light beyond all wrong

(c) A. H / K. H-H (7 December 2018 – edited several times)

This was meant to be a haiku, became a tanka and then lost any strict adherance to form. I’ve not been drinking, but things are turning and its dark at four and we’re heading into what and however I’ve been dancing, waking, this was worth reaching toward, whatever it is it is reaching toward, maybe just making a footprint and seeing itself as just that, and needing to share that.
Girl Friday




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