{or why we go grey}

the man in the moon
has always been woman

crone shaped and goddess curved
skin pocked with wisdom

hiding coy in the disguise
of sun’s darkest shadow

the stories she whispers aren’t meant to be heard

but rather


bathed in

whirled to

and some nights she goes mad in the space between beats

as the music over echoes
the pounding labyrinth of steps

stretching out behind us
in a field filled with stones

circled by the forest growing through
our mother’s bones

white-silver ghosts

swaying hand in hand

round the fire

of eternity’s remembrance




{for Mary Ellen}

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{or why we go grey}”

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