Mystic Dawn
Joe Churchwell


Fruit falls from
the dark sun,
suddenly the soul, newly born,
causes widows, and

a heart beats
so swollen with love that flowers die

and it is filled with grief.

And the world looks like a woman in surrender.

I was alone, to survive
I forged a weapon
while wheat bows in the wind.

Night is
common as it falls
with tales
of that other land:

peaches are growing there.

In another time
we rested in revere fields
when the world turned the rain came

and we recalled fires high in the hills.

Storms aspire like the ages before our births, there
will be countless love songs and forty-three poems of sadness.