The Meadow of Bones
I
 Echoes of the last foot fall diffuse at edge of night in equinox.
Soul-silk, the moon dances and folds on the surface of the silver brook
While Heaven’s white is dusted to reveal the stone crowns of a hundred tombs.
The Names that life has discarded bathe in moonlight; the bones are thawing,
There is clamor and grave-talk of Spring amongst the dead.
 II
 Wilted dreams fog the night  -- a sacrifice of bloom.
Bones quiver for the penance of red veined hands.
Dead whispers unearth legends of smoldering desert bones:
Of Baba Habu’s grandson who buried within his grandfather’s 6 feet of eternity a note
that dried fingers yearn to introduce to sockets that once held African eyes.
III
 The warm scent of rain casts a spell to reveal death’s maiden;
She moans blasphemy as her snatches are sweetened by living flesh.
The desiccate remains of her wards split and crack with excitation.
Spectators of a love that defiles their sacred ground;
The dead have little interest for respectful deeds.
 IV
 Death’s absolution does not spare the spring; it augurs.
Blood that has seeped and stained winter’s lingering gems
heavies the western-most knoll -- Â a 3 foot long coffin.
A muffled wail of fresh bones howling for the liberated soul.
The wrongness of rotting youth shiver the meadow of bones
whose inhabitants are pained to remember what they never forgot.
