Nameless

Nameless

How to speak of it:

the bramble path to the heart,

the wind as it rolls flat all that

grew in the sweet fields of May.

As we cut away the dead branches

small green whiskers grow out

in such unexpected places.

The season of bread and sorrow

fast approaches. Lughnasadh

casts a shadow in the hot and golden

fields of summer, where cicadas thrum.

Unspeakable how, the Moon, as she rises

catches the light of the run away Sun,

who lies hidden beneath the earth.

~ Sarah Fuhro