this is the season of remembering.
this is the season of deluge and mildew
of dead-white pruned fingertips and
lost power fueling days’ worth of
this is the season of mud and mold
of water-stained porcelain and
foul sluggish blood
and stories left untold
of matches with no flame and
tarnish with no gold.
this is the season of past lives
of perpetual lessons from
pedantic old gods who mete out
beheadings and divine floods
with all the flair of a spanking
from on high
who when they try to innovate
succeed only in teaching the birds
how to fly.
this is the season of diving deep
to escape or is it to return
to draw maps of undiscovered
to relearn how to see in
a light so dim.
this is the season when they
threaten to drown us
and the gods shall become those
who know how to swim.