The language of past seasons
collapsespumpkins in spring
false labor slides like mud
off the face of ease
and whatever I turn my hand to
pales in the sun.
We will always be there to your call
the old witches said
always saidalways saying
something elseat the same time
you are trappedasleep
you are speechless
perhapsyou will also be
broken.
Step lightlyall around us
words are cracking
offwe drift
separate and syllabic
if we survive at all.