Riding The Mastodon \ Equinocturne

Nancy: The sad inevitability of things coming to an end, the slow irreversible fall.  In the end we want it to fall, slipping on our own icy tears.

Riding The Mastodon

The mastodon, dying, walks on

will not fall

bleeds icicles

weeps dust

walks on inertia

puts its feet down in the desert,

headed north.

I want it to fall.

I’m afraid, riding the mastodon,

it’s dead, I know it’s dead;

the sun is setting far to the south

and the cold aches in my bones

and the tears I weep for the mastodon

ring on the hard ground.

But the mastodon, dying, walks on.

Unheeding

it puts its feet down on the thin ice.

Alan: Disturbed sleep, equinoctial gales – the world turns once again towards the dark.

Equinocturne

This night,

a wind comes up and whistles in the rigging of our dreams.

This night,

a storm rises and scatters the fishing fleet of our dreams –

so many small boats lost, and such drownings!

There are calms, too, this night, and momentary lulls,

when we know that the moon, hiding its swollen belly,

rides away free.

This night is endless as the sea.

There are times when all we can do is cling.

At last, light – and we discover ourselves grounded

at the feet of tossing spruces, gesticulating pines.

Crows surround us.  Ravens eye our eyes.

All unbalanced.  All overturned.

The sun hides his grin in an ashamed mouth

and casts milk across the face of the sky.

Hauling ourselves free from the wreckage of this night,

we collapse into the goldenrods

and sleep.