Wolf of many hours
your time it moans away,
birth iridescent radiance,
take the younglings
that once strayed.

Bathe them strong
in forest streams.
Raise them, milk them
for the sake.
Keep the spindle turning
though it’s blood that slakes.

—

Complete archive can be found on the Poems page.

This poem was published in the New Agora online journal, February 12, 2020.

This poem was published in Europa Sun magazine, Issue 5, June 2018

Image: Bronze Wolf’s head, 1st century AD