The Death Card
The skeletal figure, scythe in hand, strides
Across a field. Beneath the hooves of the horse,
A scattered ground of bones, a hand, a foot,
The severed head of a crowned man. The skeleton’s
Right foot rests on the head of a woman. He looks ahead
And has no respect for those he strikes down.
However, look closer, there are new shoots appearing
In the muddy field and among all the carnage,
One cannot help feel hope and revitalization
Of the apparent massacre all around. The lithe
Silhouette that has blocked the morning is moving.
It’s all smeary, a waterlogged prophecy. Is this
Good news? Bad news? It opens a season of confusion.
The theologians, the poets, the songwriters, and the astrologists,
Cramming their theories in what seems to be a detonated history.
He marches onward through mass destruction and grief.
If you could see the sea, you’d notice the mermaids
Have gone back underwater. The sailors feeling a new calm.
Remember, we see just a snapshot in the picture of Death.
If we expanded the view, behind him you’d see
A pregnant girl, barefoot and sober, picking primroses
As the eclipsing shadow of death gives way, to a bright
Moon shadow, expanding upon a new morning.