100th week resurrection. www.cecilseaside.com

I have worked all weekend and now I am home.
The rain is falling steady and even.
The sound of a thousand rapid hearts surround me.
The new bottle of bourbon is cold; the corked top pops
like a heavy rock dropped off a dock into a deep steel-blue lake.
The first sip is spicy and spirited, an amber blizzard melts down my throat.
The heater beside me nuzzles my cheek with its orange wattage.
The cat in her corner against a pillow, watches me with one pointed ear.
In spite of the rain it is light enough to read by, even though it's supper-time;
a sign that spring is about to spill over.
The sink is full of dishes and the desk is stacked with bills,
but sunday eve is my friday,
so I sip bourbon until the outside hides in darkness
and lamplight becomes my frozen sunset
until, like god, I say this day is done.

The early risers'
lights come on
the black sea
a blue dawn

Why we leave
a mystery
as for you
she calls for me

Leave your houses
leave your friends
the wilderness
will make amends

Drawing down
to saline shore
silent tongues
ask no more

We go down
to the water
black sea
of Cherry Autumn

We will drown
for the daughter
black sea
of Cherry Autumn

The air is still
the blood warm
no innocent
will come to harm

On the sand
the water breathes
no one's moving
no one leaves

Standing still
at deathly dusk
the birds of prey
will come for us

We deserve an
ocean grave
we're receiving
death we gave

We go down
to the water
black sea
of Cherry Autumn

We will drown
for the daughter
black sea
of Cherry Autumn

The citizens
asleep at dawn
underwater
and nothing's wrong

Cherry Autumn
rests again
now the child
has been avenged

We'll go down
to the water
black sea
of Cherry Autumn

We will drown
for the daughter
black sea
of Cherry Autumn

When the heart is your guide you will get dizzy sick,
you go down with closed eyes til the spinning top tips.
Then "What was I thinking" is your waking thought.
Don't ask or again in that trap you'll get caught.
The chaos kicks up in the whirlwind once more
'cause you opened too many windows and doors.

It wants so many things more than ten thousand ways.
"That heart is a lucky thing" someone else says.
"For my heart has stopped and has nothing to do.
It's stuck in the muck like a misplaced cork screw
left out on the lawn from last summer's soiree.
I would trade you your chaos for death any day."