The blood of summer paints the leaves
That fall to mat the ground,
Glist’ning, pepper-sweet with rot.
Beneath, new darkness churns.
The Earth was born of Chaos,
Says the myth.
Out of blackness, blackness rose.
The black of formless Chaos:
Lightless, colorless, alone --
Black that Is not.
The black of teeming Earth
The crumbling, rich reward
Of all things joined:
Time lain damp upon your palm.
How comforting, how vast,
To bend down in the rain
And take the wet, black universe in hand.
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