THE BEGINNING OF FALL
Rochelle Holt
i.
On the day I relived the hour I gained,
your voice beckoned me from the wine-red leaves
like a ghost lover haunting naked trees
after long nights done with the moaning rain.
Slipping on black feather slippers in pain,
I walked through dawn to see what magic weaves
in vision of wounded deer bent on knees,
deaf to the tapping of old hickory cane.
Your antlers caught me around thin ankles
as deep forest eyes looked into this mind
eyes to beg eyes grasp anew an ancient dream:
two half-human creatures fur-entangled
above a bed of orange-gold blanket pine.
I reached for kiss, but there was only steam.
ii.
On both hands I crawled into quiet cave
because a faint, flickering light lured me,
soft echo of a guitar serenade
like the rhythm of dancing waves on sea,
stirring an aboriginal memory
as I let the veil over my eyes fall
to center flesh in perfect harmony
with distant tune I could almost recall
while dancing in b candle ritual
to return to loved ones' shadows of souls.
I heard promise of desire to enthrall
from lips of a wandering Seminole
who had scarred my dreams with total passion,
but was I captive or the captor's son?
iii.
As the moon is waking, so too desire
swells like the song of geese as they near sight)
dispelling hollow of clouds that are white
into arc of rainbow, visible lyre.
One who agreed to sacrifice on pyre
breaks chains around mind with imperfect might
to lift and soar butterfly towards vague light
that is not the flame of devouring fire.
The shadow of her inner lover* calls
to motivate woman to rise again
out of grave of wounded pumpkin-leaf fall;
like shape-shifting spirit no longer wren,
she becomes leaping cat and caterwaul,
nightEs stallion roaming with equestrienne.
*THE INNER LOVER by Valerie Harms (Shambala '92)
iv.
In the dark of night before dusk of dawn,
I hear echo of ceremonial flute
as I walk through forest over hills gone,
surviving on the landscape and strange fruit.
My soul accompanies the ghosts of dead
figures I was alive in before nowe
or knew as lovers, although never wed,
the river of memory still in flow.
I do not seek to solve the mystery
as I confront the eagle or the ram,
or swim with flying fish in island sea
although I've been sacrificed in Siam;
for me, passion and knowledge are the same
since no one can separate wick from flame.
v.
Beneath eternal blinking of night stars,
bare woman in this incarnation thinks
of all desires and bonds as needed links
like the strings on violin or guitar
that fly memory to future or back far
into reasons for river/swamp we drink
whether thirst is sated or forced to shrink
after soul fulfilled or prone to despair.
Each relationship consumed or denied
leaves her free to believe inner power
is great reward gained from profit or loss
in revelation of truth after a lie,
confronting passion ofiears or an hour
as transmuted gold even if from dross
like phoenix or ominous albatross.
She gives up bemoaning divided state,
accepting all embraced as passionate
beacons, not shadows or ghosts to berate.
Filled with the light of both moon and day sun,
there's still apology for webs spider spun.
