Ides of the Dancer

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She understands death before rebirth. She smells such secrets in the morning air scented in your honor: crisp, feral, transitional. There is a tincture in autumn ether; the decaying fruit will later spill seed. She can sense your world in these dewy vapors so free so free with your secrets; your masks so uncertain these days. The moss recognizes the apple she furrowed your name in flesh buried by rotten leaves will one day grow green, the roots will grasp the earth patterned by your alphabet. But today, she wakes with a sadness that does not belong to her. Who put it there? Who put it there? During the mournful months of decay and ground frozen will arrive The Discourses; the first will belong to the son’s father. Do you know why she left you? it will ask. When the drafts emit the early fragrance of Spring will come the promise of warmth, peat, and the fertility of forgiveness, it will ask the second; Do you know why she loved you, Robartes? Who put it there? Who put it there?  

 

 

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