a verity

a verity 

The woods all dark now,

birded and eyed.

Then a light, a cabin, a fire, a door standing open.

                                                    Jane Hishfield

                                                    Amor Fati

the truth is the moon

is a boulder too

floating new to old

to new unrelinquishing

unrequiting rising

through the eye

of zion's horizon light

rolled over rough

or plain terrain the truth

is the moon's a shape

shifter and today a bone

hook early she's been

rising above Easter's

horizon like a summons--the 

trees are more discreet

(truth is it's too early

for leaves) in this kind

of dark.  Miles away and in

other countries the faith

filled and the believers (I

go through phases 

on the nuances) sleep in

some have set their alarms

some will have read

the prophets some will

watch for the hook 

to begin being

pulled and they will

let themselves be caught

and utterly unzipped.  They will 

bleed profusely though

no one will ever see a wound

or the blood -- and 

they will begin to 

close the whole of winter's flint

in the folds of their skin

and wait by the opening 

the moon has made

in the grotto of stars

of course untouchable

at such a distance

while it rises  and it rises