I will go down into that deepest

chamber, inmost cave, place

of mourning, on this the longest night.

I will go there to listen to the thud thud

of (my own) blood as I surrender,

cheek pressed to ground; and like

finding the ocean-song in shells

and the silent heart of speaking trees

I will cup the void to my ear

to hear, to hear, to hear what

it is that must slip gently away—

silk rush of gown falling

shoulder to floor—

or what it is that must rage and burn—

fire that cleans to the bone—

for I will show you winter’s tale

of whispering death its rightful place,

that everything may rise in flaming

colours, when once again the earth

is bathed in equinoctial light.