Aphrodite arose
from Mediterranean spume.
November, however,
is born of colder mist.
The fertile goddess
has now gone decking may trees...
red berries in profusion.
Does she see Jack Frost on the way?
The goddess of the Underworld
has gone back to her mate
leaving her mother to lament
until the white rose comes again.
Fortunately
I have more than a grass hut
for my hibernation
and am well south of Hibernia.
In my tattered slippers
I fetch wood
then listen to the flames
before making tea.
At morning service, the cat approves my blanket.
I prostrate, she stretches.
When I leave, she remains,
content as the sun now fills the hall with warmth and gentleness.
The heavy dew
tingles my toes -
the ground a sparkle
of Pure Land jewels.
Welcome the day!
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