The Hunters

In her the itch of Spring,
the last harvest long behind her, before her
standing here he shivers, the last young
chill of bud and leaf coming to the flower,
she deciding now what less to wear, all’s fair,
so shed the long underwear, she loses clothes,
peeled like the dried skin of a slain hart,
peeled down to the warming bone, set to drive out the sting,
the hot of new flesh, she sees, glimpses summer,
except now for a dream, her wonder if he’s ready
to swim, naked, she is about to drown, Adonis
will not go down, nor, heaven forbid, be out of fashion so,
a-hunting he will go, watchful for the game,
treading lightly, hopeful of a good look at the
prey, hoping to slay, Nature’s beast, a fine reflection
in the looking glass he’ll not step through,
the clock she cannot turn back, pressed for time
to gather him in quickly, the lust planted
not for the next Fall’s harvest, not to be bundled up,
drabbed down, worse buried beyond the freezing snow,
so short a life spread out so thin, the ungathered fat,
unhappy she, he to become an eater of the Earth,
consume the dark harvest, they coveters of the season
for different reasons, he, perhaps, no more to go
if the boar will hit its mark, wild and turned
hunter, dreamt soon to be murderer of her young love.

* * * * *

Today’s word is


Use it in a piece, or to inspire a piece, and post that piece as a comment below. I’d love to read it : )

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