it is autumn,
& a village is planning for
the Reaping:

                                        [the rustling of the wind as it whips through the leaves
                                        on a foggy, weaving, narrow street
                                        the faint hum of a chorus singing tunes of change,
                                        & a whisper of mischief amidst the trees & the rain.]

in a nearby village, women stand out on their porches,
waiting for news of the weather & harvest
while beasts curl & snap from the fire that warms
men with hands bloodied from the day’s hunted.

but when supper tables are barren & apron strings lengthen
on the women who pour over & onto their families,
men will tell fables & children sing carols
so the hunger pains & hopeless tears will cease.

so while some offer prayers to the God who giveth
& others grow cold in their anguish,
some witches gather in secret among cedars & birches
in attempt to tempt fate with their voices.

they sing:
seven handfuls of crunched leaves &
     seven nights of lucid dreams—
five pumpkin faces to carve grins into &
     five conversations to break hearts in two—
three dances around the fireside &
     three a.m. cold sweats in which to writhe—
one harvest moon to stand beneath &
     one soul for whom I ever weep.
                                      & while the weak are consumed with the thoughts in their heads,
                                      we clamor for life, chanting spells of the dead.

so when the blacksmith’s daughter hears a song from the woods,
raven hair aloft in the breeze,
she asks but one question: to whom shall I go?
& her boots beat a path toward the trees.