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Pentacles

His garden of stars
he nurtured with his own blood
and toil. Seasons

come and go. No more
wandering the streets, begging.
The harvest grows near.

The foliage shines
luminescent and gravid.
Today we are born.

Resting on his spade
he considers the journey
from the past to here.

He was once the fool
and perhaps will be again.
No matter. That time

is over and done.
Only the future concerns
him now, its tempest

and its aimless storm,
the gift it gives and the toll
it demands from him.

He plucks the first fruit,
brings it to his lips to taste
the stellar forces

he tended so long.
Their sweetness will sustain him
through the months ahead,

nourish him through the
gathering darkness and the
unkindness of winter.

His pentacles hold
all of summer’s promises
and her sunlit dreams,

the wealth we cannot
build nor mine, but only grow
from seeds we planted.

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