Solar Festival

 

Where the exhaustion drops our dark eyes
Dry into the dim soil--a last sunward glimpse
Before green sleep cracks our lids in a dream
Of water gnawing soil, curling around us, chewing--
In that field we are all listening to the sun,
Singing.
In the far forest fringe, mowed to a double row
Trees sigh in the last festival night, birth of Autumn
Whose eyes are dark, as all our dreams are green
Beyond these webs and whispers and wings
Swept by the last hot sight.

It took time...and another poem...and then another chapbook of poetry...to bring my head back to the space where these prompts tap into the fantastic rather than the furious. Fury is a great activator--but there's so much it's just shutting me down. I go back to fantasy for my sense of cycles, for rage against despair, for breathing space. And, of course, to re-enchant an exhausted field, frazzled in too much sunlight, too much heat, too many oops-I-forgot-to-water days (I'm sure that doesn't happen on farms. It happens in my backyard, though.). 

Also, I may be a little cranky because I've been spending the past few days re-doing my writing files and there's nothing like a project full of labels, lists, and stacks of printouts from 2012 to seduce you into thinking about all the lovely order and neatness that will result and forgetting the days of quibbling over exactly what should be filed where and why while the dogs eel their way through stacks. 

Hope your writing week has been productive & that everyone is staying safe & sane. 

-- Chrissa