Poem for the Trump Inaugural: “The Turning”

us-flag-distressThese truths we hold to be self-evident…

The Turning
     – Samhain 1991

In this dry land 
crickets fear to chirp
for waste of moisture.

Rattlers bleach their bones,
listless in the summer scald.

I don't want to say too much

	for fear of being misconstrued
	or maybe 
	for fear of being understood all too clearly 

so here's your warning – 
sometimes the blooming of flowers is a literal thing,
unfurling in the dewfall to kiss
mother sky good morrow.

And sometimes wolves change their sheep
clothes for pinstripes.


	these truths we hold to be self-evident

fade to black, 
seven ancient words
lost in the pageantry and white noise –
bites, topspin, code.

Make no mistake:

	style has triumphed over substance;
	our shamans hire out as consultants;
	God is coming to pay-per-view; 

and a thousand points of light
are less than nothing
in a million miles of darkness.

Surely some gentle beast,

	its hour come round at last,

	casts its drowsy eyes
across the land.

Surely it wonders – 
what is this terrible myth
My Word has become?

If there are gods of rain,
of sky and storm season,
if there are gods...

I face the Samhain
walk a circle three times and 
burn a prayer into the wind.

Rain on us 
as though it never rained before.

Teach our desolation of drenching,
our deserts the wonder of floodplains.

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