It is Scorpio season
in every possible sense,
For there is no safe, solid,
middle ground to stand upon
That hasn't been wet-soaked
with its flood and blood,
That transforms the gentle earth
to obfuscating mud.

But then, perhaps, it is actually clay,
taking shape under a vision in silver,
For the full moon in Taurus also glides
across these charged, ******, Scorpio skies.