deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Woman Who is With Me

I should draw breath  
of fire into lungs,
a chanting ritual built
upon drum beat and smoke.
 
Her soft tanned, leather dress
flows with many hands of making,
her hair a flutter of feathers.  
 
Upon my cold, shivering body
laid deep into the earth
she covers me with a blanket
old as death itself.  
 
Knelt at my crown she whispers
as tiny bells in the trees—  
 
This is your season of listening.
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