Falling from Grace

Words fall from the branches
of these days
just like October
and the tides of rising winter.

The light is leaving me again in this northern place
and my muse has curled up in his corner
longing to hibernate and hide from love.
He will not turn his eyes
to look at the glory of another autumn
or at the pages I am engraving with his name
on my skin.

He’s cold and starving
while I beg him again
to take my meager offering
of bread and wine.

It hurts no one for him to accept this nourishment
of friendship and loving kindness,
but he refuses me as if I am the enemy.

Beautiful muse--
eyes dark with so much longing,
permit me to wash your dusty feet
and stroke your hands
with anointing oils of healing.

I will touch nothing sacred
on my way to the treasure
of your heart of hearts.
We are bound to that red thread
of each other—
my wrist touching yours
so that the pulse together
has become the fresh sap
waiting to flow
on the first days of the next chance
at spring.