SEVEN-YEAR SEASON

I whisper your name and the day turns warm.

A third-quarter moon holds the father of Jupiter

in place, farther than ever, slower and meaner

through space, disappearing, simmering.

The day turns and I whisper your name,

your thousand-maned name, so terrible and rare.

In rain and in sun, I cup its flame.

Better than thinking, better than prayer. 

Jupiter's father holds the moon in thrall.

You know what comes next. 

One by one the days will wobble and fall.

This is the hexed season.

Slower and meaner, disappearing in space,

the world spins in circles. The worm

knows when to show her face.

Well done, she says. Good form! 

We disappear. We simmer.

The day turns from doom to doom.

In the fall, I may remember

to whisper your name to summon the worm.

^{Footnote: this poem was created using the Start-to-finish constraint as the starting point.}