Here at the Autumnal Equinox, round and round again, as we celebrate the circle of life.

Once the King slept
under the hill,
but his tree, lopped into a “T”
has sent forth new shoots.
Deep in the belly of Earth
sleeps a baby, while
outside the wind roars
over thick melt water.

Later, small flowers will bend
in the new-born lamb’s eyes
shining from the lair of the sun.
Women will dream of wings then,
but too many tears
in the hot moonlight
will leave gray threads
across the mirror of dawn.

So spit out
the soft rank fruit,
then dive
into a pile of leaves,
to rise
as a headlong snarling
wave of the sea—
the very roar in the cavern
beneath the hilltop.