Stream-streaks, collected beads of water on the glass.
The rain-mist is merely memory already.
The icey white tatters of some god’s grand library
tumble soundless from the sky like wet glass,
ten trillion unmarred words of crystalline sameness,
terrible, unpronounceable, endless.
The demise of the formerly glorious.
Tumescent fate coming into its fruition.
Lifedeath fructifying in the soup of itself.
Spring is the restive elemental serpent
aroused in the rocks under the hillside,
all lightless night-sky, air and sheets of flame,
magma and shadow folded back in on itself,
kinetic electricity conducted
in the secrecy of black magic ritual,
the wyrm with which Beowulf wrestled his warm
life away in the final encounter with fire,
scale, and fang—the penultimate failure of his sword-blade.
In spring the dead don't sleep, the gray light grows,
and unthinkable birth bursts forth again,—
the old hour glass once more flipped back over.
Currents of karma one might call them,
the sweep and spell and implacable exhortations
of the wyrd; puppets to predetermination,
us, gathered up, again, gay and expectant
at the beginning of the season. The next generation
unwittingly enervated in the reversal of death.
And the deluge-like blizzard arrives in full,
an indecipherable renascence,
on this transitional March afternoon.
// RENASCENCE part 2 / #johnevalusekpoetry /