Sol Invictus
December rains have dragged last, lingering leaves
down into litter. Sodden almond-casks
that once bore kernels, strewn discarded masks,
repose redundant. Thoughts are threadbare sleeves
devoid of comfort. Like a lonely cello,
the wind whips fitfully about its tasks.
A chaffinch flicks a fruitless shell, and asks:
the year must disappear to sere, to yellow?
Expecting legible patterns in dispersal,
she wishes worldwide winter worked for her,
have secret feelings yield the universal.
The nutshell, now inert, helps her infer
that life must die, but strangely, must prevail.
December’s just the belly of the whale.
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