To us, the reaper comes
with scythe or sword or staff;
upright, implacable.

But to the owl she comes
in soft and silent flight
without weapon or seal

only the enfolding
of wings gray as rain cloud;
a shelter after storm.

To the whale she’s a sound
wider than the ocean
that sings them into sleep.

To the timorous mouse
she is a mother’s nest,
a tongue that licks them clean.

And to each broken seed
that falls in hostile ground
she is their god, the sun.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Gwynne Garfinkle during our annual Kickstarter.]