The first poem the Oracle gave me was so gloomy I went straight to the ‘nature’ set to get the antidote.
I bring fire to men, he said,
and smoke and killing fouled the air,
leaving us with only bleeding holes for eyes
that have never healed
and no joy in the morning.
Like lies formed of an empty heart’s desire
born to nights
~of red darkness~
springs the rose,
that even in winter shines
with fruit, berry-bright and seed.
The cycle turns from shade to light,
a river of bee-warm life,
to water our dreams
and make them grow.