by Taylor Gray Moore

The sun, which we’d forgotten about,
Knocks at the wet grass,
Slowly reclaims its own space
Over the brooding mulch of Oxford,
Over the sleepy beings therein.

Heat reclaims its own dying embers,
The vacant breadth of a lust.
Here’s where we’re meant to
Become summer; to make pay
On services so far rendered
Or make our one, final, howl.

But the blade; the phoenix hammer;
The sacred blacksmith’s final triumph;
The first quivering blueprint of a life;
The crimson thread’s finally undone;
Once again, in the distance, lies death.

Photo by Sophia Valmalette-Wright