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by Logan
Rated: E · Poetry · Cultural · #2210318
An ode to lunar cycles and the madness they inspire

Underneath an aged, old moon,
a wolf bays low tonight
Swelling, bloated, slow... we swoon,
in spectral lupine light

Howling for snow to fall,
for darkness to descend
There's hunger in the crescent's call,
it takes us in the end

March, it saps as daylight burns,
the sun will have it's reign,
waiting for the worm to turn,
… the crow to fly again

Drifting into April's space,
like fools, fish in long grass
In the pink... a year of grace,
a third of it now passed

with seeds forgotten months ago,
interred in time, forgot
A flower born, begins to grow,
spilt milk in tiered plots

Lost amidst strawberry springs,
hot summers, native... rose
Indian, gifts briefly sing,
forbidden fruit strong, grows

In such forests, rivers fold,
with velvet on the horn
The buck will spring as thunder rolls
in winter's wake, we're born

Spawned toned green and torn downstream,
from roe, such sturgeon thrive,
with caviar a distant dream,
against the grain... we strive

Where wheat is set for harvest soon,
fruit sewed and reaped in sight,
with barley heard 'neath silver moons,
the corn is full tonight

Taxing under dying runes,
for hunters travels, reaped
Waxing over waning moons
for harvests we can keep

Stored and salvaged, dry in dams,
kept safe in current climbs
A beaver with a heart that spans,
like spirits, souls and minds

Flames that gather in the cold,
eclipsing where we stand
Blood moons, long nights, red and bold
… an umbral wolf in hand
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