Keepers of the Myth by W.L. Winter
We tapped into it hard,
mined it to the nuggets,
it petered out behind us,
but left sparks in our pockets
That scene folded over three
or four times, became brittle
clear like the edge of a winter
moon as seven geese
flew spirals up between two
bare sycamores at the golden
hour, then spun loops that
traced maps in the purple air
What makes it life is when
everything is as important
as it seems, when it lights up
from the inside-out & reveals
new lines and nodes & strange
growth. Let’s be scholars about
this, we can seek out original
visions, dip down into the
sterling vibe to reprogram
the grand philosophy afresh,
watch magic take its course
at the Persid shower, see the
grand repetition roll at least
one more time, speak words
edged in plasma like crowns,
etch remembrance indelible,
plant good seed, carve star
symbols into ready stone, then
scatter those memories upon
the stream of love that follows
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