The Nether Lands
Clasped hands and done in
as the meadowlark rises
so the owl goes to bed
nodding off on a tree branch
riddled with Dutch elm disease.
Once a year, the woods
wear a white dress,
but unblessed.
Under this grave cold courtyard
Persephone wrings her aching hands
and marks the days out in repressed rage
and cinder soot.
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