The Rite of Spring.

When finally the terrible ash falls,
when soot-dark hooves pound our crystalline,
light-splintered streets, and drifting in spaciousness,
tin asterisks plummet as blinking lights,
puffing a mushroom in the woods on the horizon,
and the rhythms of the New World break apart,
and the rhythms of the Earth rise in root,
when the Sun is a compass, is a watch, is a match,
and the dogs of old days become feral hounds
and the highways grow like deserts, and shrubs reclaim the roads,
Letting lichen stumble upon projects and high rises alike,
she lashes out in equitable totality, Earth,
and she wills her skin grown back,
where we once peeled it away.
And all the peoples are scattered
and each minute's like a leaf that falls, uncounted,
and all of our bleak worldly treachery, our base treason
that has scarred and eviscerated, has dissolved in ignobility,
when dirt coats our tongues like the smoke the world,
the sun will come through too mightily, and we become
like a pear baking in a warm refrigerator, unplugged and dilapidated,
Spring might be near enough, but our Winter will be rough,
and our diet one of rawness, roots and wild meat.
Our eyes will narrow and sharpen, and our feet will grow black,
our bones will weaken, our limbs losing muscle as they gain sinew,
human bodies will grow hard, stolid and stubbornly crafted to the land,
our children might hear stories of Modernity, but it's just a dream, a fairy tale,
if only our knowledge remains, and all of its dark children die,
I will not mourn.

Golden are the mornings I'll wake,
cool and wet, dewy and bright
with hard tasks at hand,
but without guilt,
and pure driven easiness lightening my feet,
tides of grass and wildflowers that ebbed are now in resplendence,
precious floorboards of our new wider home.