Mabon writings

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Dreaming of the dead and the not yet born

I am a gatherer of bones
Who finds stories and tries to remember them,

I have some of yours
Kept close

and now you’re gone from this world
and you were gone
For me
Long before that –
but I cannot remember why.

Sometimes it feels
like floating
Or flying
Or falling

but sometimes power comes
from giving in
or leaving behind.

Now I am afraid
but my fear and the
ever present eventual goodbye
make the creating feel more vital

and so on a day when the
anger is all
encompassing

I imagine them nearby
walking barefoot over rocks
and dipping toes
into cold water

listening and
waiting
patiently
for her turn.

And when I think I am alone
driving through the dark,
that I am the only one,

I remember that we are never the only ones

so when it is time to step away
I turn my back quickly
and even that
small movement
begins to bring relief.

 

Needles

The slow death of winter
comes

and though I try to remain distant
I cannot help but hope

so I lean in with a hard yes
working diligently at what I can control
and releasing what I can’t.

And when the only answer
is I just don’t know,
try to realize that
this is our beginning.

Speak it out loud,
and then
go outside
to play in the snow.

Maybe that is the first step,
to let out a wild and authentic laugh
as I sled down the long hill of our snow
covered backyard as the moon rises

and maybe clarity in something easy
will help bring the rest of the world into alignment,
back into the light.

Maybe we will reject these rules
and decide to make new ones,

maybe we throw away those old maps
realizing finally that we can make our own.