The 5th Season is Melancholia.
A somber, slumbering passage of days
folding ever so slowly towards
that long and bitter 6th Season –
Hatred.
****
on our drive to the lake that day
you said something of clarity + light
something about the way
the day was lit, I don't remember.
forests & hillsides passed
I noticed small patches of mist
hovering the meadows
and we spoke of ancestors
& vague, unfinished stories.
At the lake, routines began.
I perform old rites, mostly unaware
it seems, my hands
moving in the phantom ways
of vanished wills, revolutions long over.
I looked up when you called
heard an echo faintly in the distance
but you had said nothing,
You too seeming to move
routinely, half invisibly.
I look at you.
I have made the Muse, it occurs to me.
I have created from the breaths of Desire
a figure swirling hidden
within you + about you
a Protean Beauty that now, firmly held
reveals the unseen Beeste
of our history.
