Eternal spring
Another winter’s almost gone.
At last,
the ghosts of spring
are getting restless;
wood of winter coffins
tears and breaks;
hopeful, hungry tendrils
push through mud and lime of leaves.
One ritual awaits,
as old as time itself:
young blood
that must be spilled,
to teach the buried ghosts
of spring,
how to breathe again,
to live.
I offer you my heart,
my soul,
my warm and leaking blood.
I will go down
and call dead spring to life;
I offer all my dreams,
my future and my past
to your awakening heart.