What the Muses Leave Behind

Banshee in the headlights, sleek quiver of points bristle - Fly little arrows fly! There is no kindness, in this moment only broken hearts. No one should find such such a day. Grendel in the headlights the growling ache of Saint Lucy. Her bright party sinks with a mired night and stars ring the winter sky. Ashes turn to dust,  we all fall down. Cherubs in the headlights lifting on frozen beams. No time to say goodbye, no way to accept surrender, our most precious forever, and  we could only promise to be brave.    

Be at home in the heart, who cares what extends beyond your brittle hide. Home gives space for light, lets it feather the soft unformed. Be at home with the hunger, who cares that we tremble. Home makes room for mercy, lets it cushion the sharpest edge. When you go follow warmth, the ochre, the golden rod, each umber and ecru, the endless green, the lavender and rust. These signal our songs and bring clues for what twines the plucky hours of July with November. Be at home for the peace, join its long name: Grasshopper Phoebe Rosemary Mother's milk Alabaster First light Gibbous Moon Waterfall Morning fog Lemon balm Black dog Red tide Oak pollen Boney night Dandelion

Crowing glory glory, we expected to float back all together, even raced to be first to ford the asteroid riffle. Like children reaching in glee fingers and arms wide as rice paddies, we embraced the flood of song pouring in like stardust off the tongues of dancing galaxies- but we lost Pluto – even before the chorus began; before we could ask IAU to reconsider what makes a planet; before we could implore 134340  to bring its moon home, to convince it  that turning in a slow whirl like a dervish around the sun is better than flying wild with legs clutching an icy braid of comet tails. But they don't hear us, they're already three billion miles gone and outside we notice the stars have never been so bright.