I swore
there would be No Magic
nor prayers.
No dancing beneath
the wandering stars.
No songs. No chants.
No casting stones.
Nor boiling spells.
Nor burns.
No smoke.
No shadowed moves.
Nor ghostly moans.
Let the Buck Moon rise.
Let her fulness bloom.
I would not cry,
unsure of Love.
Of safe harbors, wealth enough
to thrive or
Grow wiser in Heart.
In strength.
In Hope.
If she would claim me
as her own.
Without petition. Or
boiling blood.
Without debate. Or
heated bones.
Simply.
Soulfully
on her own.
Then the Moon rose,
High and clear.
In tear-swept heap
I fell.
Three times three
I cried her Name and
Burned my Sage, and
Once again, I
called her near.
It began to rain.
The soften leaves sighed:
“She’s here.”