November.
Season of
roots and bones;
heart opening
heart breaking
Black Moon
breath taking.
The fleshy
bowls of hips
the Jurassic
curve of spine.
We wind,
ushered
in with
whispers
and descend
into night,
a rich resolute
night.
Faces
divine and
profane,
all and none,
materialise, meet.
And we
are here on the floor,
cradled,
lifted,
lessons and loves
sinking in,
drawing the blanket near;
whilst down
below
aromas
of Earth, onion and pine
beckon us to the river.
Damp decay
mingling
with the
sweet potent
crunch
of possibility.