As winter extends its grip on the land,
clutching with long alabaster fingers
and leaving remnants of a leprous hand
where its frigid probing touch still lingers,
deep in the cold soil, where the dormant root,
its life spark quiet but not void of light,
bides its time, holding back a probing shoot
while the surface world shimmers deathly white,
the soul of Osiris breathes deep and slow,
with soft gentle rhythm – a murmured sigh.
As the ice slowly thickens, and winds bring
sheets of freezing rain and flurries of snow,
it lazily twitches a sleep-closed eye
and dreams of its birth in the coming spring.
The parched land cries against this time of drought
like an old man beset by dusty dreams,
who finds his virile youth faded in doubt
and his best suit frayed at the seams.
In the dark months of weak and distant sun,
an ancient mist lies heavy on the earth –
unloosing thoughts that plague the mind, and shun
the knowledge of the coming spring rebirth.
The voice of Osiris speaks through dreams then,
to reassure the world it will awake,
and whisper secret words of life and power;
Like a sure promise of dawn coming when
the dank tendrils of night loosen and break,
he announces the coming of his hour.
Like a silver bullet against the night,
its potent magic cast in powdered mist
as the autumn warmth slips away in flight
and leaves only the memory of her kiss,
deep in the bowels of the hard frozen earth
where each buried fragment denies the whole
and hides itself from sunlight’s glowing mirth
seeking only the dark shade of the soul
the cold seed of Osiris is brought alive
by the earth mother’s fervent, warm embrace
and grows into new life in her womb’s void.
Now from that union the son will survive,
and in the heart of winter show his face;
the sacrifice shall not be destroyed.
13 DEC 2002
