20 Nov


I wonder

what happens to

women wizened and wise,

those bent inside their

cottage and fence.

Were once, they fae?

To dance fields of flowers

seems an awful bargain to

absent the flesh of rocking cradles.

To have pockets filled of

dustwishes to give,

but not for use.

What of her own

when there is nothing left

inside paperhusk and rind,

past fruitfulness?

Two wells for eyes,

the color of


Is that why they sigh?

To rock the ache away?

To be a sentinel of time,

the herald of fate,

scissors dangling from red ribbon

clipsharp ready,

full of lessons learned

like a compass needle toward

Mother and our inevitable return.

Are they not healers

of earthly souls?

Some say a magic far

greater than desire.

Would they not remind us

to hold a warm child tight,

the beloved other

to touch in the night?

A soft pillar of persuasion,

serving tea

and sacrifice.

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