Like a vagabond
the sun straggles to the south.
The geese follow. Winds
fill the empty spaces and fear rises
like a ghost from summer's ashes.
In woods I find again the ancient tokens:
the Ivy, the Holly, the Mistletoe.
The hollyberries are our blood,
the green is Her enduring flesh,
the white is what we cannot see.
Savoring the wine of summers past,
I wonder what will sustain us between lives.