Woodpile Reliquary

          Next to the bedroom’s patio door, 
between the stone wall & the firewood rack —
                    a snakeskin. (Hognose? Rat? Garter?)

          Scales patterned like a garden hose.
A pointed tail, 18”-inch body 
                    pearled like samara helicopters.
                              A scrim, a veil
          disappeared behind stacked logs —

                              Say the ancients —
                                                  To make the snake move on —
                                        infuse essence of cinnamon, cloves
                                                  into the wood pile.
                                                             Displace shadow.

          Between the kindling & oak 
                    banked for winter,
the snake unspools from shadows, hollows.

                    Its eyes, lidless, consider my ankle.
          It melts away, voiceless, 
                    but still speaking in tongues.

                    Has it joined the yard’s coven?
          Snakes weave around each other.
Cast thin shadows beside the sundial’s gnomon.

                                        Let light into the dark spaces.
                                                  But beware — the ancients say. 
                                        Know this price — Where can your power 
                                                            reside if you rid your land, 
                                                  your own self, of all snakes?

          A whisper of scales 
through ornamental grasses. 
                    Wind sounds like theremin.

          This winter, the indoor fire lit, 
                                           the air will smell 
                    of hickory, cinnamon, cloves.