Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Like serpents in winter,
away from the world,
beneath cold encrusted routines,
we burrowed into warm humus
to couple in a compost
of primal soils.

There, with a witch’s craft,
secret rites of wizened lore,
your initiated,
evoked imitation in me.

A spring rain,
you seeped through to me,
soaked the tips of my roots.

In sleep even,
you were a wall of ivy,
a clinging presence
that etherized fears
as old as Adam.

Your sorcery broke a seal,
eased open my womb cup,
let leap to life
the woman within:
an Eve formed of my rib.

After, alone, as I wander the world,
my heart is a peaceful lion,
wondering how enchantment can last:
this full circled serpentine spell of completion.

Tom Keene