Dionysius, mother-burned, drunk-struck,

rambled insane across continents. 


Osiris was quartered, decapitated, castrated,

dismembered and plopped in the Nile.


Odin hung himself from the highest, coldest branch

until death came as a sweet lover.


Buddha knew no peace

until poverty and wilderness woke him.


Yahweh made his own shadow,

an ashy residue forever marring his creation.


Jesus got kissed and betrayed,

spiked to a cross and left to die.


Muhammad heard the angel

only in Hira’s shadowy, glum solitude.


We see divinity in pain and loneliness

and wonder why our world bleeds so much.


The air is full of falling leaves,

winter’s crows caw,

tears of fog fall from the eaves,

as the mist unveils the things you never saw.


The running hound, the hare

hand in glove

call it love

to chase, to flee with so much care


And there, where the twilight turns the shadows blue,

buried in the cold dark ground

underneath the ancient yew,

all you prayed for can be found.


So the running hound, the hare

join thought, desire, memory

to chase, to love, and see

all the things that aren’t there


Though hidden by his crow-dark windblown cloak,

the one-eyed wandering king

remembers all the words you never spoke

and knows they form the rhymes the wind will sing.


Then the resting hare, the hound

will light their lamps for you

in the shadows underneath the ancient yew

where all things can still be found


As the leaves are scattered by the wind, the record spins once more,

but this time there will be time

and you’ll have the chance to see all that you missed before.