Bitter orange

by Susan S. Keiser

Half-timbered fodder for mice
and boiling sea
lies ruined in my short-term dreaming,
beyond illusion
thrown from twisted spindle,
drifted counter-spin to darkened Eve,
sound but echoes of what will live
as there are ears
to hear the distant 'mayday'
of ancient light.

I've lit every candle
but it will never be enough
to warm this night,
not when stars have lost their way,
not when the moon is a bitter orange,
sectioned by force I cannot comprehend
or reason with.

Prophecy hammers at the doors of treachery,
at chambers to a sick-sense heart,
where neither dove-cote nor ancient Yew
steadies the present or stands reliably
against the stories I tell myself
on nights like these.