I was right, after all this grime,

to take her at her word,

the sound of distant tide,

having lived through such a time:

the summer when our mothers died

and nothing else gave birth,

while furies stole our hell

three floors below the earth.

Knowing that no one travels well

anymore, or sits the season easily

with this much fire in the air,

saddened at first by the dark,

depressing dress she wears,

despite a passing hint of her,

a brief bouquet of rose and myrrh,

in the end, when we rise

to leave, both bodies and their sphere

move to our lips and crystallize

in the lush, familiar year

of the old nightmare -

after everything, still there.