The Fifth Season
not Spring. Not late but dark.
The hunter`s moon dissolves
as moths take to the woods, as sparks.
As if I could form the night like clay
and wonder at the polar stars in my palm.
The turning wind has failed to stay.
Tress and late snow unblessed with the kiss
of early warmth. Trapped in half light, in
the moor of sacred lands. It is
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