WEBVTT

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September.

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By dawn the little owls, the
chattered in the red moon

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have turned into
magpies in the ash trees

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resting between journeys.

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Due stays in the
grass until noon.

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Every day the mist
wanders higher

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to look over the old
hill and never come back.

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Month of eyes your paths
see for themselves.

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You have put your
hand in my hand.

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The green in the leaves has
darkened and begun to drift.

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The Ivy flowers have opened
on the Wiesel's wall,

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their bees have come to them.

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The spiders watch
with their bellies,

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and all along the shores
boats of the spirit

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are burning without
sound, without smoke,

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without flame unseen
in the sunlight

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of a day under its own king.