October True

Sleep, always scythed.

In yielding moments, breaths before dawn, I realize light itself is a pilgrimage. The first cold front of the season exaggerates the air and lends hints of the unknown to a retreating darkness. Bodies of trees begin to take shape and I weave among them, stepping only when my feet borrow what they need from each exact spot. This catechism.

Maybe because I am witchy or maybe because the river is too far away, my release will not be on watery banks. Mine will consummate in fire. A corroded fire pit teeters due to a missing leg, rusted off, but loosely set back under the iron bowl. What I place in the fire is nestled with rosemary sprigs, pine, and dried wildflowers picked from the mountainside in Vermont.

rebirth
sooted remnants returned
to this land –
holy flecks of change
recalling a pillar of salt

Dreams let loose. Clouds as little chapels nestled in a wooded hillside. Time to follow the light westward as a truer October peers over the horizon. She who is ever-she, welcomes a new name. Do you know it?

Leek soup, sourdough bread, my garden on a plate. The last of backyard flowers glow in my grandmother's vase. I often press rose petals to my lips, faintly taking in their scent as I trail the softness back and forth.

Soon we will be buried in leaves. I will allow it.