The queen of knives puts silver linings back in every stormsoaked cloud,
Sharp as razor wire.
I’ve never been more thankful for the ritual,
On the edge of plentiful harvest and fertile crescent moon.
Something prismatic awakes,
Free from names,
Joyous where sunpierced sands gather in great dunes.
Raven chasing years coalescing in the flowerbed,
Blooming darling devils with bleeding tongues and hearts,
I stand enamored with fresh starts,
Shaky delicate hands burdened with purpose,
A castle in the sky,
An obelisk beneath,
A thousand ringing bells in a cathedral built asleep.