The overhaul

Such a gentle and deceptive doing,

such a smiling assault: the world

is such a dangerous place

and your sweet words describe its violence

like a claw's caress, the downy residue

of some recent kill adhering to the talon,

tickling us as it softly brushes

against our skin as we are scarred. 

The Moon bends

the low crescent bow of her back against us

and draws pure light from her quiver;

an ecliptic clock winds up an equinox;

and the sky puffs full with stars

that, by one reckoning of time,

are (very) slow motion sparks

struck by that single hammer blow

whose attenuated impact reverberates

through all your nuanced observations:

the beaks and talons nature crafts

to fulfil purposes beyond the ken

of the creatures She asks carry them,

to convey these implements of evolution

to their target; the betrayal coiled

in every genetic helix;

the cruelties we are condemned

to commit against ourselves;

and you remind us, Kathleen, that beauty

is a hammer blow in slow motion,

a hammer blow on pause,

and we can only catch our breath

between its nauseating chimes,

and after every betrayal

and inevitable disappointment,

once we emerge altered

by unsought struggles, even once

all we first thought we fought for

is revealed as a lie and we collapse

gelded by the knowledge of our failures

we can still rededicate ourselves

and survive in the tales

we tell our heart's

around their hidden campfires, tales

of who we once were long ago.