Wolf Moon

  

Pinned  on skies of fire,

Framed in obsidian.

trailing a mantle

of scudding clouds;

a corpulent moon

 

We stand, looking up,

cold as our grave

may someday be.

Hunger, not mercy,

shall master us all.

 

Blood in front of us.

Blood between us.

We make love and a child,

is formed, regardless our failings,

our flaws

we both know too well.

 

This night, in our innate sinfulness,

we may see the rule of teeth.

A beautiful child lies in its bed

The wolf breathes his ancient heat

upon crystalline snow,

birthing wet droplets, descending,

sliding down grass blades to earth,

finding their way to beseeching ground,

relaxing when sustenance appears,

to embrace the seed, opening in turn,

bringing life to a flower.

 

Fathomless, his bright  eyes

see blood as circumstance.

Stronger than quarry,

quicker than light,

softer than shadow,

He is sure.

 

His children know his strength

apart from lust of teeth.

In their hearts

hearts of all quarry live.

 

As Wolf continues, timeless,

separate.

He is the endless circle,

keeper of the balance,

husband of the night.

His feet support his weightlessness.

Shapeless in his power.

All power is shaped by him.

 

The living worlds compliment 

Seasons of the wolf.

Nurturing heat,

his jubilant breath, 

warms slowly softening snow.

covering ground beneath him.

 

His transformation and

sparkling teeth,

Sometimes greet a death,

Or sometimes

as the days beseech  

a ravishing flower in April.