Seasons

I.

Lying beneath worlds
Of milkweed’s
Airy feathers, dancing
And tickling the ears of sleep and wonder.

II.

The son of Appollo and Coronis,
You were born for greatness
But also barely born.
Coronis was murdered for trading on love;
Rescued before the fire
Cut from the heat of her stomach
The legs of curious seasons striking
Matches on wooden mantles,
The twisted knots of translucent cherry pine
Shining burgundy
And grace into the morning.
The crows watched as the blood dripped from your body
And you greeted the crowd with a fury of days.

Raised by Kheiron,
The wisest and oldest of all Centaurs,
Your life honored the sick
Who could be healed in Aesclepion’s
Sanctuary of belief
In the classical world
By sacred snakes on wooden floors,
Under beds
And in dreams which were reported
To priests first thing in the morning.

III.

The errand of your time
Nodded toward the notion that human beings
Can be fixed. That they do not have to suffer
The folly of human experience
Or the total break down of things familiar in a life
Not of our own.
This is the story of Sanctuary.
And Asclepius,
You will die by lightning
Against charges that you raised the dead
For payment in gold.