On Witches

You who make my bones turn soft; I may never be hard-jawed again.

How did you know I was a witch and not lovely little Gretel?

Air, most akin to love by the dual actions of giving and receiving. With this breath, I claim my right to love wholeheartedly and to be loved that way in return.

The ever-turning wheel of waxing and waning. Moon-water, summer nights, Perseid's cosmic tears.

Witches know all must die so that all might begin again. Do you see me sinking into the depths of total loss . . . that dark and fertile knowing which gives rise to all that is pure and new?

To be the humble gift giver and yet, also a queen. How my sensual feminine dwells in the spaces in between!

The Magdalene, another witch. The red-hooded lover-healer, guide to my heart. Alchemist, mentor, student, seeker, Priestess of Magdala. She mourned the loss of the divine masculine and for her trust, Christ healed her wound.

Mary knows the masculine has also been wounded. To meld is to heal. To heal is to love. To love is to be made whole.

The Witch of Sacred Love longs for the crucified palms and feet of this wild brother so that they can be resurrected together. New. Whole. One.

Maiden, Mother, Crone.
Hunter, Father, Sage.

together
casting beams
upon gifts and wounds
raised from the abyss
into wild sainthood