Queen up from field fire, feathered in myth.
Faces west with father’s scythe.
Leaves mother, leaves brother, leaves fall.
They’ll save themselves, all.
Follows a red ball to woods of holly berries.
It’s time, says August, for what destiny marries:
Two starseed crowns–since Earth demands
That home’s between held hands.
Dance do drangonflies in rhyme.
Laugh at God, craft a manger. It’s time.
— Sarah Smarsh