Love bears all things.

It is the promise of the vacant cross lit by the rising sun,

and the sacred fire tended within the temples of the gods.

It is the burning forge of the illuminated soul.

Our impassioned witness,

our silent confessor,

and our merciful salvation.

The permeable yet unyielding light that wraps itself around the many faces made in His image.

Those images…

reminding us that we are all capable of so much more.

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I am your Mother &  your Father.

I am your Daughter & your Lover.

I am life, death & time eternal.

I am the cup & the sword.

I am the right and the left hand path.

 

You have no power but what comes from me.

We have our own way of Drawing Down the Moon,

You and I.

With lips and fingertips,

evoking a savage tenderness.

An embrace becomes a lifetime.

And in it we dance,

we die,

and are reborn a thousand times.

You wrap your arms around me and hold the Earth still.
The soft musk of your skin,
The heavy thud in your ribs that recalls the beat of tribal drums,
The charred taste of burning embers coats my tongue,
Lingers….
I slip away with you,
Down into the earthen hollow,
The center of myself.
Warm tangled flesh presses deep into the dampened soil.
On hands and knees you bore me back into the light.
Lover. Shaman. Bear.

Crisp cool California morning
Dogs with twitchy whiskers unlock wild impulses, memories from long ago
Fire, hunger, pack talk, hunt
Smell of coffee breaks the trance
People partners, laughing children padding through the house
No rabbit or antelope today
Wet noses nudging
Bacon and eggs shared
Back to a big warm bed.

The Crone’s dark shadow creeps across the land.

Thrice she strikes the blunted staff of her sickle upon the earth and bids her daughter, “Rest and bear no more.”

The brittle wasted ground beneath her cracks.

The young mother yields, and taking the sickle from the Crone slays all that feeds un-weaned  from her bosom.

Slouched and ailing she shepherds the fallen into the Crone’s black shadow,

and in that fertile darkness,

slumbers.