The Weddynge Calendar  

For Keha and Jeff 

When in the fine hour of the morning, light 

Finds the cracks to splay through darkness

And the rabbitting sun unfurls the hidden

Bark of 10,000 trees withholding all their colors

Through the night, and the green field

Turns more gold than green, the gold sands

Of the mountain shifting day by day

In the continual uplift of orogeny, mayflies

And maypoles, June’s mosquitos, July’s rain

Of solid light the dromedaries of the clouds

Dress in in their silent trek across the skies,

In August when the heat is cracked with night’s

First cold hints of those continents of ice

In Canada, may love furnish not its flower

But its root. The flowers come before. The flowers

Of the mornings when you are still awake

Incredibly in one another’s arms, or the memory

Of one another’s arms, the memory that swallows

Everything, the memory that is the sea to which

All returns, and from which all life springs forward

Forever in its flowering. Orange flowers of our

First love. White flowers of our second. Flowers

That crowd the veranda as they climb. September’s

Flowers that shimmer with impending loss. 

Then October flowers with the grave. November’s 

Flowers are white ashes of the rain. December wipes  

The world white with its white flowers like a bone. 

These are the hours of your chorus: two, two; 

In the home that is the shell of you, the shell 

Of you both crab walking into the future

That is the daughter of time. Then is the hour

When the black earth sings. When the bears 

Of winter begin in earnest their ancient dreams 

And we sleepless scavengers make our rounds 

From TV to TV. In this vacuity, when air itself has 

Become bored with the inability of ice to thaw,

When all of the world has become ice and only ice 

Will grow, then your flowers pin their tiny futures 

In the root of hope and except that tiny fire 

Of hope leave you with nothing in the world 

Of snow and snow. In that Saturn 

Of emptiness may love furnish you the root 

Of love, the force that cracks the earth and its ice, 

In the dark beneath our drifting dramas on the ice.

May love’s fire awaken in you its 10,000 futures,

The shimmering worlds that cloak us in their hopes

And forgive perennially our errors. Our errors

Are perennial. They too are flowers. But we are in 

This scattering of light an emblem of the sapphire

At the world’s core, drifting like flames, blue 

Daggers of life and error, time’s chance, broken 

Wagers, hopes split open and pulsing 

With disavowal. Love is the light that shimmers 

With 10,000 worlds, worlds we move inside,

Worlds like shells, shifting, merging, urging.

January comes with the chaos of being born, that

Tyrant of whitening dawns. That morning after.

Cold coffee, frosted pane. That’s the time of looking

Forwards to the edge of the hopeless dawn. 

Spring is for looking backwards 

To the muses in their gowns. 

January, mother of darkness, widow of Hyperion,

Sharpening your tools in the shifting night,

Harbor too these twins of light, these doves. 

Let light lift their hearts into the early flight 

Of February’s love, and crack the shell of gloaming 

Mounded above the snows. In the beginning 

Was the garden and may the future be our gardens 

With rivers running under them.

March together through these snows 

To the steaming springs and the white mountains. 

March together under the blue iris of the sun. 

In that oldest month of being when the birth 

Of new dark secrets opens the heart of the world 

Again and releases its reliquaries’ birds,

Carry these secrets, the root of all living, the love 

You have in this hour of your twining, 

Into April’s sweetest rain.

Andrew Haley is a poet, writer, and translator who lives in Portland, Oregon. His first book of poems, Good Eurydice, was published by Otis Nebula in 2011. More info is available at