by Théo Zita

What flowers will I bear
Once the machinations of the moon
loosen hues from me.
Darkness from when you wake up
and until the afternoon,
when many of us
most need light.
Nothing to hope for but the passage of time —
adrift between movements and sways,
harsh and unforgiving.
Life holds onto each hand of a clock,
always having to let one pass by,
and hears the last rattle of Fall.
Time
harsh and unforgiving,
gives insight
into dreams;
orients the stars
toward new stories,
mounting myths to the cosmos;
draws roots deeper into earth;
piled with all this ash,
grief slips away in the wind
like mountains
and leaves.