Orpheus My Valentine Not Dead
Last night I believed I saw three Witch Beings
relent and cast down from their winter moon
Orpheus, free riding.
Happy all he was with his magical lyre.
Not trapped with bereavements of old,
no lures set with any crying,
he called to me.
His sun-gold limbs were elegant intact.
Feet swift where night wind took him.
Blood red were his cheeks and marked,
telling where he’d been.
By fate or by chance that night he came
into my darkened room, my bed.
His whispered song tenderly to hold me.
Orpheus, my valentine, not dead.
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