A Poem for Samhain
A harvest moon sits lazily between streaks of cloud,
as machines separate chaff from grain,
creaking pines mingle with fireworks and acrid gunpowder,
until the midnight hour stalks the remaining fields and hurls curses at the muddy water’s edge.
Gone are the times when the night’s figures, simian and laden with offerings and votives
would fling bronze a…
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