Esoteric New Year
Cardinal
Fire
2, 3, 4 of Wands 

like stepping from a cathedral into the street—

the quality of air alters, an eclipse lifts, 

boundlessness opens, earth itself retextured 

into weeds where woods once were.

Even planes of motion shift from vertical

navigation to horizontal quiescence:   

there’s a standing invitation to lie back 

as sky’s unpredictable theater proceeds. 

Suspended in this ephemeral moment 

after leaving a forest, before entering

a field, the nature of reality is revealed. 

So this is what it comes down to in the end: earth and sand skimmed, trimmed, filleted from rocky bone, leaving only solid unshakeable bottom, what doesn't in the end give in to the relentless hammer, whoosh, and haul-away of tides but stands there saying "Here I am here I stay," protestant to the pin of its absolute collar, refusing to put off the sheen on its clean-scoured surface, no mourning weeds in spite of loss after loss-whole wedges of the continent, particles of the main plummeting from one element to the other and no going back to how things were once, but to go on ending and ending here.

Beauty is not enough. 

You can no longer quiet me with the redness 

Of little leaves opening stickily. 

I know what I know. 

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe 

The spikes of the crocus. 

The smell of the earth is good. 

It is apparent that there is no death. 

But what does that signify? 

Not only under ground are the brains of men 

Eaten by maggots. 

Life in itself 

Is nothing, 

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. 

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, 

April 

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.