It was a time of no rain,
when the centaur bowed his head to puckered ground.
A time for dry roots in dry earth
and for birds to drop like widowmakers
from the air, dead of thirst.
It was a time when men who erred awfully
assumed the reins of power—
dry-eyed, unapologetic, untried, too proud.
A time when your grandmother and I
dared not say our true names aloud
for fear of who might hear
and how they would be used against us.
It was a time to keep our practices simple,
our longings rooted deep, deep in the earth,
our compasses close.
But it was not a time unvisited or unknown
by the goat-hoofed god who canters wild
between the worlds; nor was it a time
lost entirely to wonder, or roses glazed in dew
and morning glories storming the fence, overjoyed to simply climb.
It was a time…
and in this time, what little I have been allotted,
I lay down this poem for Pan—
for your mother and father and grandmother and for you,
my unborn grandchild. I hand it down
here at the edge of all I know, and all I can know—
beside the gilded leaves of the buckeye’s crown
that whisper, “ssstay…”, and the windy earth spirit
who is always murmuring, murmuring: “Go!”
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