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"Thoughts upon Diá del Muertos"

I drink Mourvèdre amidst
the ashes and the bones
of the forgotten dead
All buried in the corpse of the lost sea.
The Mountain is crowned
with the first of the snows,
While Persephone's nibbled pomegranate lays upon the ground,
Cast aside like so much trash
as she makes her decent
into the underworld,
casting the harvest aside.

I remember then...
How a man, a writer
far wiser than myself,
and but recently in his tomb once said:
"What can the harvest hope for
if not the care of the Reaper man?"

I thought of his words often,
as I worked in the early sunrise,
with the ancient fountains of fire
frozen in time at my back,
and the last Black Hawks of summer
screaming high overhead in the fall sun,
while petite sirah stained my hands
like sticky black ink.

I found myself wondering if
perhaps we are all
reapers and winnowers,
just not of grape or grain,
but of souls, sorrows, and joy,
and our words for future generations.

I think now
of the joys the souls
buried under my feet
must have experienced in life.
I pour the dregs of my glass
upon the thirsty graves for them
and the dead skulls grin
for the reaper man
under the earth.