Let there be a season when no one rakes,
when all that has ever fallen can drift
with ordinary wings. Mithras, I hear you
out in the open, humming our favorite tune
through a leaf and a comb.
Lead us as if we were righteous
into the blue light of heaven
when no one will forgive anyone
just in case it’s condescending,
and we will love each other
to the withered toes.